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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965182">And so beguile thy sorrow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax'>hapax (hapaxnym)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Library, Authors, Book Recommendations Are Aziraphale's Love Language, Crowley Is That Patron, F/M, Fictional relationship, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Gratuitous Canon Quotes, Inspired by true events, Librarians, M/M, Mild Angst, Not Like 6000 Years But Still Sloooooow, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Public Libraries, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, So Many Reference Questions, but mostly shenanigans, i wrote this for me but you can read it, reference questions, trivia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:27:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>39,461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965182</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Crowley (generally known to the staff as </i>That Demon<i>) was unusual in that he was obviously aware of his library codename, and delighted in returning the favour.  Thank goodness, he showed no apparent signs of mental illness, or awkward exhibitionism, or even potential danger.</i><br/><i>What he </i>was <i>was bloody annoying.</i></p><p>Aziraphale adores his work as a public librarian.  He finds fulfillment in answering questions, recommending titles, and planning programs.  He likes his co-workers (well, most of them), and loves the small city he serves.  The only thing marring his happy life is That Patron.<br/>Until one spectacularly disastrous Summer Reading Program throws them into a most unusual Arrangement.<br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale &amp; Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Background Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy, background Beelzebub/Dagon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>252</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Good Omens Human AUs</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 025.5 (Reference and information services)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I said that I would never write a fully human AU, but here we are.  This fic is based primarily on my own experiences in US public libraries--every reference question, every program, every management policy included is one that either I or someone I know has encountered--and I don't know much about UK library culture, so please forgive the unspecified USian flavor.</p><p>The title of the fic comes from Shakespeare.  The chapter titles are subject headings and classification numbers from the Dewey Decimal System.</p><p>A thousand thanks to burntongueontea for the beta. &lt;3</p><p>The overall rating is based mostly on swearing and some innuendos.  More specific content warnings will be noted at the beginning of each chapter.  Please let me know of anything I missed.<br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Come, and take choice of all my library,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And so beguile thy sorrow</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>--</span>
  </em>
  <span> Titus Andronicus, Act 4, Scene 1</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale glared at the stapled set of papers on the top of the stack on his desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t the papers’ fault.  They were inoffensive pages, one might even say attractive: nicely-organized, correctly-formatted, proposing a well-thought-out (if not particularly innovative, and that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as a traditionalist public librarian down to the argyle socks in his sensible shoes, he was somewhat nervous of anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> outré) collaboration with the Teen Services Department on a poetry program.  There was nothing objectionable about the line on the lower left corner, already inscribed neatly with his initials </span>
  <em>
    <span>AZF</span>
  </em>
  <span>, signifying his approval as the Head of Adult Services.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, the problem was the currently blank line on the lower right.  The one labelled </span>
  <em>
    <span>Assistant Director</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The one that required sign-off on any program projected to cost more than fifty dollars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The one that meant he would have to talk to Gabriel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t that he thought that the AD wouldn’t approve the expenditure.  Gabriel Herald had been nothing if not supportive of any programming ideas—if anything, he’d urged them to get out of the building even more, coming up with initiatives that Aziraphale privately thought completely outside the scope of the library’s mission (honestly, an automated key duplication kiosk?  What was next, thirty-minute automotive oil changes?) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, the problem was that Gabriel refused to conduct such routine business over email, and would insist on discussing the program in person before he’d sign the request.  And then he would </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d talk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>When I was in your position</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d talk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Our renewed vision for outreach</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d talk </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maximizing community and business sponsorships</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d talk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have you thought more about partnering with that new gym downtown, I’d be happy to take you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d talk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do you a world of good, buddy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d talk and talk and </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, only pausing for breath in the middle of sentences so Aziraphale couldn’t thank him and edge out of the office, and then it would be half an hour later and time for Aziraphale’s shift on the Reference Desk, and maybe he’d have Gabriel’s initials and maybe he wouldn’t, and Gabriel would say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good talk, Zira</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Aziraphale </span>
  <em>
    <span>hated</span>
  </em>
  <span> being called “Zira.”  He had carefully whited out the nickname on the nametag Gabriel required everyone wear, and elegantly lettered in “A Z Fell, MLIS, Ph.D.”  His friends called him “Aziraphale” and everyone else called him “Mr. Fell”—he didn’t insist on the “Doctor”, he had standards but he wasn’t a </span>
  <em>
    <span>snob</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and his double doctorate in Classics and Medieval Literature was hardly relevant to his everyday work, after all—well, everyone but …</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No.  He wasn’t going to think about Crowley right now.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Terribly sorry to be late,” he said to Anathema, Genealogy/Local History Librarian and his best friend, as he approached the Reference Desk to relieve her for her lunch break.  He took a deep breath of the soothing smell of books and dust and wood polish.  He loved this section at the heart of the Tadfield Public Library, converted from the erstwhile chapel donated by the town’s Old Family Names.  Never mind the awkward octagonal shape, never mind the endlessly leaking oval skylight, never mind the building’s Registered status that made the desperately-needed repairs an insurmountable legal hassle, this was a space consecrated to words and stories and those who held them holy.  “I needed to get Gabriel’s signature and, well, you know how he is …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anathema rolled her eyes.  “Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>El Señor Parlanchin</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <span>no need to say more.  Last time I went into his office to get my time-sheet fixed, he spent over an hour trying to get me to do the bilingual story hour, I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>que chingado</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I have brown skin, so I speak Spanish now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not to be pedantic, my dear, but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> speak Spanish.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I speak </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spanglish</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like most kids who grew up in California, and only the swear words.” Anathema threw up her hands as she left the seat behind the desk.  “What, I’m gonna read </span>
  <em>
    <span>Los</span>
  </em>
  <a href="https://www.facebook.com/trespendejos/"> <em><span>Trés Cabrones</span></em></a>
  <span> to the kiddos now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Language, my dear, we’re on the floor,” Aziraphale chided (a bit tardily) as he took the seat she had vacated.  He tugged at his cuffs, then began rapidly typing his username and password into a cascade of tabs on the screen, a different set for each of the databases, catalogs, vendors, newsletters, and other apps he used most for ready reference.  It would be too convenient, he supposed, for them all to permit the same format and restrictions, so that he only had to remember a single login.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t start, you don’t even know what those words mean!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but I’m fairly certain that many of our patrons do.”  He gave the other librarian a mock-stern look and she laughed, settling one hip upon the desk.  Anathema looked every inch the stereotype of the librarian, from the tidy bun securing her long dark hair, through her high-necked long-sleeved ankle-length dress, to her sturdy black lace-up boots.  Aziraphale knew how deceptive such appearances could be; his friend spent her days off traipsing through the nearby Hogback Woods, </span>
  <em>
    <span>linking her consciousness with the trees and animals </span>
  </em>
  <span>(Aziraphale suspected that at least one consciousness was chemically altered to make such connection easier), and she almost always had a bread knife tucked into a special sheath in her right boot.  “Don’t you have something better to do in the back, rather than mocking my linguistic ignorance and perching unsafely upon taxpayer-funded furniture?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anathema swatted him with a review journal.  “I have a whole pile of obits to track down and print, and I’d rather do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> else,” she groaned.  “C’mon, the library’s dead, the phone hasn’t rung for twenty minutes, perfect time to, um, facilitate intra-departmental communications.”  She smirked at his blank look.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Gossip</span>
  </em>
  <span>, boss.  Catch me up on whatever hobbyhorse Gabriel’s riding now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hard on the buttocks, some of them,” Aziraphale mused.  “Although it’s your fault that I had to go into his office in the first place.  Well, yours and young Newton’s, I suppose.  That poetry program …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a good idea,” Anathema bristled.  “And stop calling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>young Newton.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  He’s my age, or close enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And yet he seems infinitely younger,” Aziraphale sighed.  “He’s been here for over a year now, he shouldn’t need his hand held constantly like this anymore.  And I’m scarcely one to criticize, but I’d think that a librarian working with young people might be a little more …” He wiggled his fingers vaguely. “A little more </span>
  <em>
    <span>ept</span>
  </em>
  <span> with social media and technology and all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He only blew up the 3D printer that one time,” Anathema said, a tad defensively.  “And I’m sure that it wasn’t Newt’s fault that the library was kicked off Tumblr.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dear, he was posting </span>
  <em>
    <span>pornography</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>fanart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it wasn’t Newt, it was his Teen Advisory Board, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, I know you did, you reblogged it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How would you know, you- you- </span>
  <em>
    <span>online stalker</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Aziraphale recoiled in feigned horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, </span>
  <em>
    <span>azfell_reads</span>
  </em>
  <span> is such a fiendishly clever pseudonym, no one would ever guess your secret digital identity,” Anathema answered drily. “Just give Newt a little more time.  He’s getting more confident every day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anathema, he is terrified of his own Teen Advisory Board.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s hardly fair.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> is afraid of the Them.”  She picked up a pen and shoved it into the bun at the back of her neck, next to the two that were already protruding.  “And they like </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> well enough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is very likable,” Aziraphale conceded.  “That doesn’t mean I understand what on Earth convinced Gabriel to hire him for the position.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> why,” she grinned, right on cue.  “He was the only candidate who has that long thing that dangles down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should take offense, inasmuch I </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> possess that long thing…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she crowed, patting his bow tie, “don’t let it dangle!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave an exaggerated sigh, crossing his arms.  “Really, my dear, don’t you ever get tired of that joke?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet,” she giggled.  “Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> ever get tired of playing the straight man?”  Her eyes crinkled a bit.  “I mean, not that you ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Aziraphale had learned from Machiavelli that the best defense was to attack.  “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that this poetry program is really designed for the teens, and that yo-, er, Newton only wanted to partner with Adults in order to work with you?”  He shook his head.  “You shouldn’t string the poor boy along like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anathema turned slightly pink and pressed her lips together tightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, dear.  Perhaps he had taken the teasing too far.  “At any rate, it’s a good thing that I did go talk to Gabriel,” he offered.  “For once, Gabriel seems to have some genuinely glad tidings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooooh,” Anathema said, clasping her hands to her chest mockingly.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dish</span>
  </em>
  <span>, girlfriend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Aziraphale’s turn to huff in mild offense, but he was too excited not to share.  “Well, you must understand that this is all very hush-hush until it’s confirmed, but it turns out that Gabriel heard from Sandy—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point Anathema, who was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> fond of that particular member of the Board of Trustees, could be heard to mutter “</span>
  <em>
    <span>mamarracho</span>
  </em>
  <span>” under her breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do understand, dear girl, but you know that if there’s anything in the wind, Sandy is the first person in all Tadfield to know of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She signaled ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>go on</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ with both hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The thing is, it seems that a … oh, I shouldn’t name names … a </span>
  <em>
    <span>New York Times </span>
  </em>
  <span>bestselling author is considering relocating into our little town!  And Gabriel thinks it possible that she might agree to do something for the library.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anathema raised an eyebrow.  “Something?  Something like </span>
  <em>
    <span>money</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”  The Tadfield Public Library was comparatively well-funded, as these things went, but there was never a library yet that wasn’t at least a little strapped for cash.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmmm … Gabriel seemed to think maybe more along the lines of a program.  A reading, perhaps, and a book signing.”  Aziraphale wiggled a bit, thinking of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’d have to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> bestselling author, for anyone in this town to come out for it.”  Anathema crossed her arms skeptically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale wiggled harder, as he tried to keep the name secret.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Indeed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other librarian’s eyes grew big.  “Ah?  Mystery series?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Young adult fantasy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not … </span>
  <em>
    <span>romance</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, I mustn’t say.”  His eyes danced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anathema clapped her hands in glee.  “Someone who writes bodice-rippers in our stodgy old library?  I mean, I know they circulate like crazy, but I never thought that Gabriel, let alone </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Director</span>
  </em>
  <span>, would admit that they’re even in the collection!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shhhh!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Aziraphale hushed her, then winced.  He hated it whenever he fell into the stereotype.  “It’s only a possibility, remember.  But </span>
  <em>
    <span>if </span>
  </em>
  <span>Ma-, er, this author should come, I can assure you that she has never ripped a single bodice in any of her books.”  He considered.  “Diving gear, yes.  Maybe a few flak jackets.  A burqa or two.  Possibly chainmail.  Oh, and there was that one hazmat suit, but that was only in the film version …”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hazmat suit?  Film?  OH!”  Anathema pressed her fingers over her mouth.  “Aziraphale Fell, you don’t mean to tell me that we might get a signing out of Tra-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hullo, if it isn’t my favorite Answer Angel.”  Aziraphale would have been grateful to have Anathema’s imminent indiscretion interrupted, if only it hadn’t been by that particular drawling voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Crowley, what a pleasure to see you again.  How can we help you today?”  Aziraphale said, as flatly as his dedication to excellent customer service would permit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y’can call me just </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to start with,” the lanky redhaired patron said, dropping his briefcase on the floor and collapsing into his usual sprawl in the chair in front of the desk.  “I’ve only asked like six thousand times.”  He took a noisy slurp from his cup of to-go coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale answered, with a tight smile that might have been mistaken for playful by the </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> unobservant.  “And I believe that we’ve informed you </span>
  <em>
    <span>at least</span>
  </em>
  <span> that many times, that outside beverages are not permitted in the library building.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, right, give me a sec, don’t get your boxers in a bunch,” the other man said.  He upended the cup and drained it one long swallow.  (Aziraphale most definitely did not watch the line of that long slim throat bobbing up and down as he did.)  Crowley tossed the empty cup in a trash can and smirked at Anathema.  “So, parked for a long chat, Prophecies Girl?  Or can the Angel here give me a little reference help?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m for lunch, then, Aziraphale,” Anathema said stiffly.  She slid off the desk and marched towards the door leading into the backroom.  “I’ll get onto those obits afterwards.  Give me a buzz if you need backup.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every public library had at least one manifestation of That Patron.  Regulars, of course, whose constant demands, borderline misbehavior, and odd and less-than-endearing quirks earned them a long string of comments in their computerized circulation records, a thick section of annotated forms in the Problem File, and not-exactly-fond nicknames among the staff, so warnings could be quickly spread without violating patron privacy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Demolition Man</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for example, who came in weekly to request Sylvester Stallone movies, and was known to burst into a tearful tantrum if one of his favorites was checked out to someone else.  Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Needy Chick</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for who camped all day at one of the public computers, logging into dating sites, and requesting that staff proofread her responses and choose their favorites among her semi-clothed photos before she would send them.  Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Creepy Kid</span>
  </em>
  <span>, probably well into his twenties by now, who wore a heavy down khaki jacket and military boots winter and summer, and would park himself in a corner of the stacks staring fixedly at the young pages as they shelved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley (generally known among the staff as </span>
  <em>
    <span>That Demon</span>
  </em>
  <span>) was unusual in that he was obviously aware of his codename at the library, and delighted in returning the favor.  He always called Aziraphale </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Answer Angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for example, which was flattering if quite the exaggeration; Michael St. Just, the formidable Head of Circulation, was </span>
  <em>
    <span>The General</span>
  </em>
  <span>; Anathema, much to her irritation, was dubbed </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prophecies Girl</span>
  </em>
  <span> after Crowley found her seated cross-legged in the 133’s, absorbed in a stack of books, (“Really, it’s in my section, and Agnes Nutter is an important figure in our local history, and besides, she’s never been wrong!”)  He also, thank goodness, showed no apparent signs of mental illness, or awkward exhibitionism, or even potential danger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But what he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> was bloody annoying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ever since he moved to town six months ago, he would show up like clockwork twice a week (almost always coinciding with Aziraphale’s regular desk hours, but the librarian considered that most likely a just an unlucky fluke) and park himself in front of the Reference Desk, sometimes for </span>
  <em>
    <span>hours</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  He’d invariably request the weekly limit of ten items from other libraries, often obscure books and articles from specialized institutions that didn’t participate in inter-library loan programs without a personal phone call, and usually pestered Aziraphale to try to track down non-existent audio or digital versions of whatever he was looking for; then, when his items arrived (sometimes months later) half the time he wouldn’t even bother to pick them up.  But since he always paid the nuisance fees upfront without complaint, none of this was technically a violation of library policy, so Aziraphale would just grit his teeth and put in at least an hour submitting ILL requests every time.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Then</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Demon would often just remain draped in the chair, as if he had forgotten how bones were supposed to work and—scrolling through some list he apparently kept on his phone—he’d fire questions at the librarian on desk duty (once again, usually Aziraphale).  Sometimes oddly specific, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>I need to know the social structure and conservation status of black-footed ferrets in Montana</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Sometimes broad and philosophical, such as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Which is more important in various ethical systems: individual or class equity?  How do they reconcile the contradictions</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  And some apparently entirely random:  </span>
  <em>
    <span>What were the names of Noah’s sons’ wives?  Why do they put pimentos into olives?  How habitable is Proxima Centauri B?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t rude or demanding.  If other patrons came to the desk, Crowley wouldn’t relinquish his seat, but would politely wave them ahead with an air of insouciant </span>
  <em>
    <span>noblesse oblige</span>
  </em>
  <span>, only reasserting his claim on the librarian’s (</span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s) assistance once he was finished with the petty inquiries of lesser mortals.  After a few months, the department had finally bowed to necessity and added a second patron chair in front of the Reference Desk, since the first was tacitly reserved for That Demon’s use.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The frustrating thing was, these questions were actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>interesting.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Even though he suspected that Crowley pulled them out of his arse…nal of oddities, seeking out information and avenues of exploration felt like real reference work, the sort of thing he had been trained to do, after hours and hours of </span>
  <em>
    <span>where’s the bathroom</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how do I make double-sided prints</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  They weren’t the sort of thing that could be answered—or at least answered </span>
  <em>
    <span>properly</span>
  </em>
  <span>, with authoritative citations—via a simple Google search, or a quick printout from Wikipedia.  Many of them, to his profound visceral satisfaction, couldn’t be answered from online sources at all, but required the use of actual printed, bound reference materials.  The kinds with </span>
  <em>
    <span>structured syntactical restrictions</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  And </span>
  <em>
    <span>indexes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  And </span>
  <em>
    <span>cross-references</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to mention that Crowley </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span> was interesting.  He wasn’t chatty in that over-familiar way of so many lonely patrons.  He never once asked Aziraphale about his family, or tried to get him to join his Bible study group.  He didn’t talk about himself at all (Aziraphale had no idea what, if anything, Crowley did for a living, but was well aware that it was a topic of lively speculation among the Circulation staff).  But the sheer variety of things he </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>ask, the lively intelligence he showed in his responses to what Aziraphale found, and the probing follow-ups that pushed searches into new directions … well, any librarian would find these intriguing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Obviously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Almost as intriguing as the Demon’s person.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale was burningly conscious of the inappropriate nature of his reaction to Crowley’s swaying saunter, his lean elegance, his exaggerated gestures, even his flashy clothing (the man favored a goth-rock-star aesthetic that was decades too young for him, but somehow he made it work).  He longed to peek behind the dark sunglasses that Crowley always wore, even on the darkest winter days, which professional detachment would never permit him to ask about.  He yearned to learn the story of the twisting serpentine tattoo next to his ear.  He firmly squashed every fleeting inclination to sniff deeply at that smoky cologne, stroke that fiery hair, as not only profoundly unethical, but downright </span>
  <em>
    <span>creepy</span>
  </em>
  <span>; but he couldn’t help being a human being as well as a librarian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale couldn’t decide if the shifts monopolized by Crowley were the high or the low points of his week.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter.  He was a librarian, and serving the patron to the best of his ability was always the priority.  “How can we help you today, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That Demon smirked.  “Okay, Angel.  Let’s start by seeing what you can find for me on Project Habakkuk…”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 808.02 (Authorship techniques)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Aziraphale said hurriedly, trying not to feel wretchedly old, “what I wanted to ask you two was... I’ve got a meeting with Gabriel shortly, about our plans for Adult Summer Reading.  Do you have any ideas?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Oh look.  A plot point has been spotted in the wild!</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THANK YOU to all who have read, left comments, or kudos on this self-indulgent fic!  I will try to remember to stick some actual story into all the snarking about library shenanigans.</p><p>Thanks again to burnttongueontea, who valiantly completed a beta amidst computer meltdowns.</p><p>CW for this chapter:  none, except for a lot of silly sexual innuendo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anathema and Aziraphale were gathered in the office of Uriel Wise (Community Services Librarian), trading war stories of Truly Stupid Reference Questions, inspired by the latter’s new desktop monitor background:  <em> There is no such thing as a stupid question, but there sure are a </em> lot <em> of inquisitive idiots </em>.</p><p>“ … so there we were in the 900’s, and I was showing her our thickest tomes on the history of Western civilization,” Aziraphale said, waving his arms in a way that the tiny office really didn’t permit, “when it turns out that all that she wanted to know was the name of Dale Evans’s horse!”</p><p>There was a brief silence instead of the laughter he thought the anecdote deserved.</p><p>“Who’s Dale Evans?” Anathema asked, at the exact same moment that Uriel said, “Buttermilk.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, that’s correct,” he nodded at Uriel, a bit peeved; then, turning to Anathema, “She was married to Roy Rogers.  That was what made it funny.  The patron had asked for books on Western civilization, when what she really wanted was a bit of trivia about an actress in movie Westerns.”</p><p>“Oh. Ha-ha,” Anathema said without much conviction.  Then, after a beat, “Who’s Roy Rogers?”</p><p>“<em> Anyways </em>,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, trying not to feel wretchedly old, “what I wanted to ask you two was... I’ve got a meeting with Gabriel shortly, about our plans for Adult Summer Reading.  Do you have any ideas?”</p><p>The two other librarians looked at each other.  “I don’t think it matters,” Uriel finally said.  “I’ve seen you try everything over the years, and whatever you do, you always get the same fifty people to sign up, and the same twenty who actually participate.”</p><p>“And they only do it for the chance to win the gift cards,” Anathema added.  “Nobody cares about adult SRPs.”</p><p>“Well, <em> Gabriel </em> cares!” Aziraphale snapped.  “Or at least he thinks that the Board cares, and you know that Sandy has the power to make all of our lives miserable if he gets it into his head that Gabriel is unhappy.”</p><p>All three fell silent as they considered the likelihood of Alexander “Sandy” LaFont, member of the Board of Trustees and Liaison to the Friends of the Tadfield Public Library, exerting himself to smite their next budget request.  If Anathema muttered <em>maldito </em><em>mamón</em> under her breath, the others pretended that they didn’t hear it.</p><p>“Fine,” Uriel said, pulling out a notepad.  “What’s the theme this year?”</p><p>“The national joint program is <em>FindingLove@YourLibrary</em>,” Anathema rolled her eyes.  “Newt is having fits.  The artwork is positively maudlin, and the programs that the Them keep suggesting… well, let’s just say that he insists that no babies be conceived on his watch.”</p><p>“The general public isn’t interested in themes,” Aziraphale observed.  “We’ve always sold the Adult SRP as a way for parents to model reading for pleasure to their children and grandchildren.”</p><p>“Right,” Uriel made a note.  “So what is the Children’s Department doing?”</p><p>Aziraphale laughed.  “Oh, Bee’s planning on the same entomological theme they’ve used for the past six years.  They said <em> Kids love bugs, bugs are easy, I’ve already ordered two thousand glow-in-the-dark flies as prizes, I’m not going with some dumbass theme that some out-of-touch marketers dreamed up, get out of my fucking office, Gabriel </em>.”  Not even the Assistant Director could intimidate the ferocious Children’s Librarian Bee al-Zebul in their own domain, and their department regularly pulled the kind of attendance numbers to back them up.</p><p>Anathema looked uncertain.  “Maybe we could…”</p><p>“Absolutely <em> not </em> .”  He pulled his pocket-watch from his waistcoat (the others constantly teased him about using such an antiquated device, but really, it was hardly any different from using one’s mobile phone, and the stylish gold chain prevented him from accidentally leaving it in the restroom, unlike <em> some </em>staff he could mention) and checked the time.  “I need to be on the desk soon—thank you again, Uriel, for switching shifts with me so I could make this meeting—but do email me, either of you, if you have any ideas before then.  Or, I suppose, after.  Toodle-pip.”</p><p>Two hours later, none of them had had one single, solitary idea.  Aziraphale knocked on Gabriel’s office door, utterly unsurprised to see Sandy obsequious and grinning in one corner.  What he had not expected was the person in the other seat, fluttering her hands excitedly: a handsome woman of a certain age, a few inches shorter than his own height, wearing a brightly patterned caftan that clashed with her artificially bright red hair and cosmetics just on this side of garish for daytime.</p><p>Aziraphale recognized her immediately from the back covers of some of the most popular novels in the Fiction collection.</p><p>“Tra-” he began.</p><p>“This is Aziraphale Fell, he’ll be running our Adult Summer Reading,” Gabriel interrupted.  “Zira, say hello to <em> Marjorie Potts </em>, she’ll be staying in Tadfield for several months at least, and has the most intriguing and generous idea to kickstart the program.”</p><p>“A very great pleasure indeed,” Aziraphale said, lifting her outstretched hand and bowing courteously over it.  “<em> Do </em> call me Aziraphale.”</p><p>“Oooooh, right posh,” the lady cooed.  She appraised his person, from his sensible brogues, to his cream-colored suit, velvet waistcoat, and subdued tartan bowtie, up to the cloud of fluffy white-blond curls.  “You’ll be <em> perfect </em> for what I have in mind.”</p><p>“All-righty,” Gabriel clapped his hands. “I’m sure that, as our fiction specialist, you know all about Tracy Madam, the popular romance writer?”</p><p>“Author of the perennially bestselling <em> SEAL Team Sex </em> series, the new <em> Dangerous Curves </em> series, not to mention numerous standalones?” Aziraphale answered drily.  “Revered by fans of both contemporary and historical fiction, and usually referred to as <em> La Madame </em>?  Yes, I do believe that I’ve heard of her.”</p><p>“Good, good.”  Gabriel was not so much <em> immune </em> to sarcasm as <em> insensible </em> of it.  “Ms Potts here, she and Tracy Madam are …”</p><p>“<em> Close acquaintances </em> , you might say…” not-at-all-Tracy-Madam said coyly.  “ <em> Very </em> close.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled encouragingly, and hoped that someone was going to propose something specific about a book signing soon.</p><p>“And it turns out that Madam is willing to donate an exclusive original novella to our Adult Program,” the Assistant Director concluded triumphantly.</p><p><em> What </em>.</p><p>Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it again.  He genuinely had no idea what to say.</p><p>“Set in your very own charming public library,” Marjorie Potts elaborated.  “Featuring characters based on your delightful staff.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Gabriel said, then did a double-take.  “Oh.  Ah.  Really?  I don’t …”</p><p>“Oh, <em> yes </em> !” she beamed.  “The notion came to me all at once, the minute I saw this splendid gentleman.”  She indicated a dumbfounded Aziraphale.  “Won’t he make just the most <em> delicious </em> romantic hero?  All buttoned-up and prim and proper; but I’ll bet he’s just a sexy <em> demon </em> inside, aren’t you, lovey?”</p><p>“Er …” was the best he could come up with.</p><p>Sandy decided that it was important to put his two cents in. “Oh, Fell is a very … <em> nice </em> person, but surely not romantic hero material?  A bit … <em> soft </em> , you know, no offense.  Wouldn’t your, um, Madam’s readers prefer someone rather more … athletic? Square-jawed?  <em> Manly </em>?”</p><p>“Oh, no,” the lady shook her head.  “They’ve been positively clamoring for beta heroes lately, you know?  All brainy and quiet and shy, but <em> raowwwr </em>, those hidden depths!”  She eyed Aziraphale with speculation.  “I’ll bet you fenced in college, didn’t you?”</p><p>“No, no, not … not <em> exactly </em>,” he stammered, to her obvious disappointment.</p><p>“No?  Such a shame.”  She nodded her head briskly.  “Still, we’ll figure out <em> something </em>.  Now all we need to do is go through the rest of the staff and find you a heroine.”</p><p>“Oh … I don’t … I mean, I shouldn’t think …” Aziraphale wrung his hands together in distress, and (to his absolute horror) found himself looking to Gabriel for assistance.</p><p>Which, naturally, he failed to receive.  “No, you shouldn’t,” the Assistant Director said briskly.  “Leave the thinking to those of us who are paid for it, hey?”</p><p>“The Board,” Sandy announced, obviously feeling it necessary to assert his presence again, “is very eager for staff to participate in activities that … make accessible to the public … their unique personal gifts.”  He smiled in a way that displayed the gold caps on his teeth and conveyed absolutely zero warmth.  “On a strictly voluntary basis, of course.”</p><p>“Of course, of course!”  Gabriel’s smile was equally predatory.  “So, Sunshine, time to brush up your hero credentials.   I’ll leave it to you to introduce Ms Potts around and explain the project.”</p><p>Just as Aziraphale was gathering up the nerve to say something that would undoubtedly feature poorly in his next Annual Review, there was a knock on the door, followed by Anathema poking her head in without waiting.</p><p>“Sorry for interrupting your meeting,” she said with a palpable lack of sincerity, “but we’ve got a situation at the desk and we need—oh, <em> híjole </em>, is that…”</p><p>“Ms Marjorie Potts, new to this area,” Aziraphale interjected with a speaking look.  “Presenting a most, er, <em> unusual </em> suggestion for the Summer Program.” </p><p>Anathema instantly abandoned whatever problem had brought her to Gabriel’s office in favor of eager nosiness.  “Ooooh.  It isn’t the <em> SexAndSatanism@YourLibrary </em>that you brought up earlier, is it?”</p><p>Aziraphale winced.  “My dear girl, that was a <em> joke </em>!”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know,” Anathema said judiciously.  “You did say that you were ready to, what, <em> think outside of the box </em> when it came to marketing.  And that would sure get us on TV.  I’d bet the Mayor might even bring it up at the next Council meeting!”</p><p>“Well, if he did not, <em> I </em>certainly would!” gasped a scandalized Sandy.  Everyone else in the room turned to stare at him, with mixed degrees of incredulity and pity.  He looked around, then quickly amended, “If … if I didn’t already know it was meant humorously.  Always up for a good jape, I am.”</p><p>Shaking her head, the absolutely-not-a-famous-author turned her gaze to the newcomer.  “Who, may I ask, is this charming young lady?”</p><p>Forestalling both of her supervisors, Anathema stepped forward, hand extended.  “Anathema Device, Reference, Local History, and Genealogy; Have Insight Will Prophesy; Curses and Potions Extra.”</p><p>“<em> Anathema </em>.”  Aziraphale closed his eyes in agony.</p><p>“Hey, boss, didn’t you get the email from On High?  We’re supposed to publicize <em> our unique personal gifts </em>.”  Anathema grinned at him cheekily.</p><p>“There’s a difference between sharing cat photos and displaying eldritch eccentricity, my dear!”</p><p>“Oh, you <em> have </em> cat photos?  I thought that your bowties were your only pets.”</p><p>“That’s enough, you two,” Gabriel barked.  “You’re embarrassing our guest.”</p><p>Ms Potts, however, seemed delighted with their banter. “Oh, how fun!” she clapped her hands.  “Clever, quirky, quite pretty in an unusual way …”</p><p>“<em> She liiiikes you, Aziraphale </em>,” Anathema announced in a stage whisper.</p><p>“… and the chemistry between the pair of you is off the charts!” the older woman concluded, hand pressed to her heart.  “I can’t imagine I’ll have to look any further for my lead couple.”</p><p><em> Well </em> , thought Aziraphale, <em> this is definitely It.  Welcome to the End Times </em>.</p><p>“Anathema, didn’t you say there was some sort of emergency?”  Gabriel said, with a rictus that looked set in concrete.  “Zira, you should go address that right away.  Sandy and I can finish up the details here.”  He addressed the still-effervescent Ms Potts.  “I must apologize, for <em> everything </em>, but patron service comes first, of course.” </p><p>Sandy, ever attentive to Gabriel’s moods, already had the office door open and looked ready to shove the miscreant librarians on their way.</p><p>“Anathema,” hissed Aziraphale once the door had safely clicked shut behind them, “do you have any idea what you’ve <em> done </em>?”</p><p>“Sure,” she shrugged.  “Got you a chance to flirt-by-proxy with a famous author, which should nail down that book signing, you’re very welcome, <em> and </em> made those two look like the <em> pendejos </em> they are.”</p><p>“Tracy Madam isn’t doing a signing for us.”  Aziraphale twisted his fingers together.</p><p>“Ah, no!”  Anathema reached out to pat his shoulder in sympathy.  “I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.  I could’ve sworn she was one of those grand old gals, you know, who like a bit of sass and a naughty joke.  I didn’t mean to screw this up for you.  Do you think if I apologize…?”</p><p>“No.  You were absolutely spot-on in your assessment of her character.”  He took a deep breath.  “She isn’t doing a signing.  She’s <em>writing us a story</em>.  A <em>romance</em> novella. As part of the <em>FindingLove@YourLibrary</em> program.  And apparently she is going to use <em>you and I</em> as her lead couple.”</p><p>Anathema put both hands over her mouth to stifle her whoop of laughter.  “Oh, boss, that’s <em> awesome </em>!”</p><p>“No, it is NOT.  It’s wildly inappropriate.”  He clasped his hands stiffly behind his back.  “Not to mention utterly <em> humiliating </em>,”</p><p>“Aw, Aziraphale, am I not good enough for you?”  She looked at his face and her smile faded.  “Hey …”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, my dear.”  He gave her a withering look.  “You are, as the lady observed, extremely witty and attractive and outgoing, which I am not, never have been, even when I was your age, which was <em> twenty years ago </em> .  More important, I am your <em> supervisor </em>, and this will place both of us in a horrendously awkward position.”</p><p>“C’mon, it’s just a story, right?”  She cocked her head.  “We’ll make her change the names, put in a disclaimer, I’ll sign anything you like to get you off the hook.  I think it will be a total hoot, honestly.  I mean, how many people are gonna read it?  Even if it <em> doubles </em>our sign-ups, that’s just a hundred or so.  And, no offense, I’ll bet anything you like that all of them already know that I’m not exactly your type.  Too many x chromosomes, to start with.”</p><p>Aziraphale sniffed.  “Don’t be a biological essentialist, my dear.  I am perfectly open to all <em> sorts </em> of chromosomal arrangements.”  He ventured a small smile.  “I daresay you are correct, and I am just being an old silly.  I still … well, I would prefer that my private life be kept <em> private. </em>  But it’s only a little literary <em> amuse-bouche </em> , nothing to do with me, and it <em> is </em> a very generous offer on La Madame’s part.  I <em> was </em> asking for something different for the summer, just this morning, was I not?”</p><p>Anathema nodded. “Let the shenanigans ensue!” she crowed, then interrupted herself.  “<em> Ay, Dios mio </em>, I completely forgot why I came to fetch you!  You see, the Demon showed up, right on schedule—”</p><p>“Oh, <em> dear </em>, did he fuss at you?” Aziraphale said, contrite.  “I’m sorry, that is quite unacceptable behavior, shall I speak to him?”</p><p>“No, no … well, he <em> did </em>, of course he did, we expected that, we all know he only comes here to moon over you—”</p><p>“Balderdash!”</p><p>Anathema snorted.  “Oh, stop it, he brings you pastries every Saturday morning—”</p><p>“—he brings <em> the staff </em> pastries—” Aziraphale insisted.</p><p>“<em> Ri-ight </em>.  Anyways, that’s not important.” Anathema grabbed at his sleeve.  “Listen, you know how we’ve speculated whether all those questions he pulls off his phone are just random crap, or something he really needs?”</p><p>“Yes, and I have responded I don’t know how many times, that it doesn’t <em> matter </em>, the patron’s motivations are entirely irrelevant to our professional obligations,” he said severely.</p><p>“Fine, fine, Saint Ranganathan-aphale.”  She waved away the outraged reply on the tip of his tongue.  “The point is, the <em> point </em> is, we’ve got a definite clue now.”</p><p>Aziraphale struggled, but his curiosity won out.  “Ah?”  He was a <em> terrible </em> librarian.</p><p>Anathema kindly forewent acknowledging his weakness.  “Right.  So I put in his new list of ILLs, okay?  And he was really grouchy about having to go through me instead of his precious <em> Angel </em> , let me tell you.”  She didn’t allow him to interrupt.  “So then he asks about you <em> again </em> , and when Uriel tells him you’re still in your meeting, he’s all <em> whatever </em> , then pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through, like always?  Then, I am not making this up, he turns <em> bright red </em> , I mean the color of his hair, and starts sputtering, and I ask if he needs help, and he goes, <em> I can’t ask you </em> that, <em> I can’t ask either of you that </em>, so I’m thinking, okay, either he was planning on asking you for a date—”</p><p>“<em> Anathema Device! </em>”</p><p>“—or somebody <em> else </em> is sending him these questions and this one he’s too embarrassed to ask a woman-shaped entity.”  At this point she started giggling, and had to hold up a finger ‘ <em> one moment </em>’ before she could go on. </p><p>Aziraphale tried not to tap his toe in impatience.</p><p>“So, I’m like all <em> okay, fine, I don’t care about your dumb questions, I’ve got a whole stack of call-back messages </em> , but you know Uriel, she got on her professional high horse, and she snips at him, <em> I assure you Mr. Crowley that we are all fully trained professionals here, and are competent to answer any and all reference inquiries </em> , so he glares at her, even through his shades you can see it, and he goes, <em> Auuuggh, fine then </em> , and he looks back at his phone and kind of mumbles <em> what is the psychology behind men bestowing … nicknames on their, </em> uh <em> , anatomy </em>?”</p><p>“Oh, <em> my </em>.” Aziraphale put one hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.</p><p>“And Uriel says <em> I’m afraid I don’t understand, do you mean their limbs or lungs or …? </em> And he turns even redder and says <em> never mind </em> , and I am <em> dying </em> over in my seat and I catch Uriel’s eye and sort of wave at my lap, and she gets this <em> ohhhh </em>look and turns back to him and says … and she says …” Anathema was gasping for air by this point.</p><p>Aziraphale was dearly hoping that he was not going to have to offer apologies and inflict discipline, but he suspected that whatever Anathema was about to say would be worth it.</p><p>“Uriel says <em> I daresay that men like to be on first-name terms with the boss </em>.” Anathema gave up and leaned against the wall, cackling like the witch she was.</p><p>“Oh, <em> drat </em>,” Aziraphale swore, trying very hard not to laugh along with her.  “I suppose I should go and talk to him, poor fellow.  Do you think it would help if I told him that Uriel could not possibly have been making fun of him, since she tragically lacks even a smidgeon of a sense of humor?”</p><p>“Honestly, I think that would make it worse,” she observed, still snickering.  “Besides which, he slunk out right afterwards.  You’d have to wait until Saturday morning, <em> if </em>he even shows up.  Best not to mention it at all.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promise that Aziraphale has nothing to fear, and that Crowley will actually show up and speak for himself in this story next week!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 121 (Epistemology and theories of truth)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Aziraphale is having a rough morning on the reference desk.  Crowley makes it better.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just a lot of nonsense, really.</p>
<p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Racist, xenophobic, and homophobic language from Shadwell. Ableist assumptions from Crowley (about himself).</p>
<p>As always, enormous thanks to burnttongueontea, whose tireless beta makes me look like I really do know how to grammar and punctuate and all that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Crowley did not, as it happened, show up on Saturday morning.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Aziraphale insisted to himself that his feeling of disappointment was due to the lack of his morning pastries.  It was dreadfully spoiled</span> <span>of him, to have become so accustomed to the treats—</span><em><span>bribes</span></em><span>, really—that Crowley regularly brought in (for the </span><em><span>staff</span></em><span>, not for Aziraphale, no matter how the redhead would plunk the white box down on the Reference Desk in the most offhand way, saying </span><em><span>Here you go, Angel, I don’t want to hear you bitching about your break while you’re helping me this morning</span></em><span>, as if Aziraphale would ever be so unprofessional!) but he thought he could have really used something sweet and flaky after such a trying morning.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>The Library was always short-staffed on Fridays and Saturdays, so he would usually spend his entire day working Reference.  Today he had been partnered with young Newton, who desperately needed more public desk experience, but that had meant Aziraphale was stuck handling his own patrons as well as half of the Teen Librarian’s. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As so often happened around the poor boy, for reasons no one quite understood, the technological infrastructure chose this day to misbehave terribly, what with their online catalog system freezing up, the printers jamming, and the entire internet seeming to slow to a crawl (it didn’t help any that the public kept yelling at the staff to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fix it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as if there were some sort of secret tap that Aziraphale could turn in order to speed up their browsing.)  And of course their new state-of-the-art VOIP phone system was doing strange things, like randomly refusing to ring and popping up with days-old messages and sending everyone who pressed ‘0’ to the City Recycling Center, and since Aziraphale was busy juggling yesterday’s money drawers and running Circulation reports, Newton had to do all the trouble-shooting.  Aziraphale suspected that he enjoyed it (Newton </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> first applied to be IT Librarian, until he discovered that the City insisted on servicing all their technology remotely, which was a whole other morass of inconvenience) and he was theoretically brilliant, but there was no denying that he was making a muddle of practical applications.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All things being equal, it was rather a relief to escape back to the breakroom and indulge in a calming cup of tea, even without the longed-for pastry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Newton returned from his own coffee break (sporting a revealing wet spot on his right sleeve, where he had undoubtedly tried to rinse out a spill, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sigh</span>
  </em>
  <span>), it was to find Aziraphale struggling to assist Shadwell, the Library’s part-time custodian and informal security guard, who had earned the half-affectionate, half-exasperated sobriquet of “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sarge</span>
  </em>
  <span>”.  The man was … </span>
  <em>
    <span>old-fashioned</span>
  </em>
  <span> (which is how Gabriel described his outspoken homophobic, misogynistic, racist, and half-demented rants), without question, and if Aziraphale happened to see him catch on fire outside the building he wouldn’t bother to cross the street to, er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>spit</span>
  </em>
  <span> on him; but inside the building, at the Reference Desk, he was a patron like any other, and deserving of the best service Aziraphale had to offer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, at the moment, that wasn’t good enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aye, so m’sister’s daughter’s girl, Carly that is, the wee one, not Vicky, though Vicky’s a good girl too, not so wee now, heh, not that any of them are, where does the time go?  So, Carly says to me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nuncle</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she always calls me that, sweet girl, although I’m not her uncle, not properly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nuncle, can ye no make me one of your wooden sculptures</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  An’ fancy her wanting a thing like that, mostly I make sheep ye ken, or horses or suchlike beasties, but she’s wanting this, this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>person</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she’s been watching them Jap cartoons lately, she showed me, but I forget the name and I cannae find the picture again, I dinna want to disappoint the lass…”  Shadwell ran down to take a breath, and Aziraphale seized the opportunity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll certainly do my best.  Do you happen to remember the name of the show?  Anything about the character?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh, those things, she watches them on her computer, ye ken?  All the names sound the same.  This one, though, had white hair, whiter than yourn, than mine even, I do remember that.  Long white hair.  And a sword-thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very good.”  Aziraphale typed ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>popular anime character white hair sword</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ into the search box and crossed his fingers.  To his dismay, the screen was swiftly populated with figures, all different, none of whom meant a thing to him.  “Er … Anything about the name?  Male or Female?  Something about how they dressed, perhaps?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Och, male, female, how can you tell with these Jap cartoons?  All big eyes and skinny, wearing one of them bathrobe-things, I suppose?  Looked a right fairy, they did.  The name… Maybe an S?  Or a TH in there?   Not sure.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale winced, and was about to turn the monitor about to let Shadwell have a go, when Newt stepped in.  “I apologize for interrupting, Sarge, I mean Mr. Shadwell, but how old is your grandniece?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Glad for the help, laddie.  Carly’d be thirteen last October.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, good.  And are you sure that it’s an anime character?  I mean, from a cartoon?”  Newt persisted.  “Could it be from a game that she plays on her computer?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nae, I’ve seen no cards nor dice.  Just a lot of folk hopping around with swords and such.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, right,” Newt muttered.  He thought for a moment.  “Did they have wings?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aye, and I said they were a fairy, did I not?”  Shadwell crossed his arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale said softly.  “I thought he meant …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He probably did,” Newt answered, unsuccessfully hiding a grin.  “Here, try typing in ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sephiroth</span>
  </em>
  <span>’—that’s with a P H, right—my first thought was Jushiro Ukitake, but she’s probably not allowed to watch anything that violent, but … yeah, Mr. Shadwell, is this your guy?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale did spin about the monitor this time, and watched Sarge’s face light up.  “We’ll print this out for you, then.  This picture, and maybe this other view?”  At the old fellow’s nod, Aziraphale felt briefly like pumping his fist in victory.  “And we’ll write the name down for you, so you can find it again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Probably should write down </span>
  <em>
    <span>Final Fantasy VII</span>
  </em>
  <span>, too, that’s the name of the game,” Newt added. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sarge had paid his printing fees (discounted for staff) and shuffled off, Aziraphale turned to beam at the other librarian.  “Well </span>
  <em>
    <span>done</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Newton!  You really saved me there, I was at a complete loss.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Newt shrugged.  “It wasn’t anything.  I just happened to know stuff …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, but you also knew the right questions to ask to narrow down the search, that makes for a truly professional reference interview.”  As the younger man looked at his feet, blushing a little at the praise, Aziraphale took a chance.  “This is short notice, I admit, but would you care to join our trivia team out at The Fifth Horseman tonight?  It’s usually Dagon, Uriel, Anathema” (he did not fail to register how swiftly Newt looked up at that name) “and I, but there’s room for a fifth member.  And we could really use some shoring up in the popular culture category.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After young Newton had blushed some more and stammered and </span>
  <em>
    <span>are-you-sure</span>
  </em>
  <span>-ed for a bit, he agreed to meet up at seven o’clock, and Aziraphale felt the twin satisfaction of having both done a good deed and meddled in his best friend’s romantic prospects.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This inner warmth bloomed into a faint blush of his own when he looked up and saw Crowley sauntering up to the desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The redhaired patron had a covered tray in the hand that was not clutching his laptop case, and a rather defiant expression on his face.  “Oi, Angel, a bit late for pastries, I figured your lot might like something for their afternoon break, though.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale peeked under the lid to see a lovely fruit and cheese assortment, and caught himself in an anticipatory wiggle.  “Oh, that looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>scrummy</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  You really shouldn’t spoil us like that, Mr. Crowley, it is both our job and our pleasure to assist you, you know.”  He glanced up and saw that the Demon seemed to be staring at him from behind those dark glasses, lips slightly parted.  “I’ll just pop this into the breakroom and be right back with you, all right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley snapped out of his daze.  “Yeah, I’ll just …” he waved at the seat before the desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale had gone to the breakroom, sampled just a slice (or two) of the most delightful juicy pear, and was halfway back before he realized that it had never occurred to him to suggest that this particular patron turn to Newton for assistance.  Fortunately (he assured himself), the younger librarian </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought of it, and was frantically searching through the desk drawers as Crowley watched him with a saturnine smirk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr. Fell!” Newt cried.  The Demon startled a little.  “I’m sorry, but OCLC blue-screened on me and I can’t find the print ILL forms anywhere!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Newton, calm down, it’s fine,” Aziraphale answered, whooshing calming air pats in his general vicinity.  Surely even Newton could not have actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken</span>
  </em>
  <span> the global cataloguing and interloan utility!  “Why don’t you go ahead and take your lunch break? I’ll take care of this.”  He shooed the Teen Librarian and his apologies in the direction of the breakroom, then sat down, tugging at his waistcoat and straightening his bowtie.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Doctor</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fell, eh?” Crowley eyed him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It can happen to anyone,” Aziraphale responded primly.  “Now, what are you looking for today?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley rattled off a list of titles, all of which seemed to be technical specifications on cutting-edge military vehicles, and quite unavailable for interloan, or for public perusal at all.  After his sixth failure, Aziraphale huffed with frustration and held up one hand to signal a pause.  “My good fellow, I assure you that you are a valued patron and we will do our best for you, but have you considered that perhaps a public library is not </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> suited for your research needs?  The community college is only half an hour from here and the university an hour past that.  I know that that’s a bit of a drive, but the latter has a much larger collection, not to mention professional schools for medicine, law, and theology, plus research librarians who specialize in these sorts of queries …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What makes you think I don’t go there already?” Crowley sat back, arms folded across his chest, and scowled ferociously.  “’M only </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> twice a week.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My deepest apologies, I thought—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this about last Wednesday?” the other went on to demand.  “’Cos I dunno what those two said about me, but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>insisted</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I didn’t wanna come off a </span>
  <em>
    <span>creeper</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not that there’s anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>with that, big creepy fan me…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, my dear!”  Aziraphale cut in, horrified.  “I was in fact contemplating how we could ever apologise to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you did nothing wrong, no one thinks so, please do forgive me!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ngk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  Crowley made a rather indescribable noise in the back of his throat.  “Um… don’t … not … Angel … </span>
  <em>
    <span>ugggh … </span>
  </em>
  <span>nothing to forgive.”  It is possible that he may have </span>
  <em>
    <span>squirmed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Just a little.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“At any rate,” Aziraphale said, closing out his connection to the online multi-library catalog, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to borrow any of these titles you asked for today.  Is there anything at all I, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>, can do for you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley opened his mouth to answer, but whatever he had been about to say was lost when a tallish, rather … well, there was no help for it, rather </span>
  <em>
    <span>odoriferous</span>
  </em>
  <span> patron stepped up to the desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have the latest IBD out,” he said in a hollow voice, more suited to announcing the imminent demise of one’s long-lost true love.  “It’s supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>daily</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Recounting the investment deeds of the day.  It’s right in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, dear.  Mr.  Hastur, is it?  Let me take a moment to call into the back and see if I can find out what happened,” Aziraphale soothed.  Hastur just stood there, head at an odd tilt, hands hanging listlessly on either side of a rather dirty trench coat.  He was one of the Library’s regulars, but Aziraphale had rarely interacted with him; Hastur customarily spent hours lurking in the dimly lit Business Reference section, poring over stock prices, fund reports, and other investment information. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unfortunately, Aziraphale didn’t have good news for him.  “I am terribly sorry, but it seems that the staff member responsible for processing Serials has been out this week, and they’re a bit backed up.  They’ve promised to get right on digging out the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Investors Business Daily</span>
  </em>
  <span> and checking it in, but I’m afraid you’ll have a bit of a wait.”  He hesitated.  “If you’d like, I’d be delighted to show you some of the many online investment resources we have available, they’re actually much more timely…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah.”  Hastur looked offended at the suggestion.  “Don’t trust computers.  They can put </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> on one of them, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I assure you, these are very authoritative sites, produced by the most reputable agencies.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“None of your flash screens for me!”  Hastur snapped.  “I want to see my numbers printed up, on paper.  Like they’ve always done.   Craftsmanship, that.  That’s how you know they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Er, well, I understand, of course.”  Aziraphale </span>
  <em>
    <span>didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> actually; he himself greatly preferred the look and heft and </span>
  <em>
    <span>smell</span>
  </em>
  <span> of printed books over digital formats, but he wasn’t about to condemn the latter as somehow </span>
  <em>
    <span>fictitious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  But it wasn’t his job to argue with patrons.  “Could I interest you in the regular newspaper, while you’re waiting?  Or perhaps you’d like to look at a magazine?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley, ostensibly absorbed in scrolling through his phone, gave a barely smothered snort.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um?  To pass the time?”  Aziraphale was at a bit of a loss now.  “I can recommend the most fascinating article on rescuing the American chestnut tree in the most recent </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tadfield Journal</span>
  </em>
  <span>...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Naw.”  Hastur waved him off.  “You get to my age, you’ll find that you’re not really curious about much anymore.  Just bring me the IBD when they got it ready.” He slinked back to his regular corner.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s that expression for?” Crowley asked, in a much gentler voice than usual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.  I’m sorry,” Aziraphale returned his attention to the patron still patiently waiting for his assistance.  “I was just … thinking.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thinking what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“About not being curious anymore.  That is possibly the most </span>
  <em>
    <span>tragic</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing I have ever heard anyone say.” Aziraphale shook his head.  “Oh, my goodness.  That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>horribly</span>
  </em>
  <span> unprofessional of me.  Please forget that you heard me mention that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lips are sealed, Angel.”  Crowley mimed drawing a zipper across his mouth, which had the fortunate side effect of distracting Aziraphale into thinking about how well-shaped it was, and wasn’t that equally </span>
  <em>
    <span>unprofessional</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  “Don’t get it m’self.  I’m curious about practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that wanker hasn’t got many years on me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t insult our other patrons,” the librarian chided automatically, then smiled brightly.  “You are, aren’t you?  Forever asking all sorts of questions.  Far more than enough to make up for Mr. Hastur.  Although …” and his eyes began to twinkle in speculation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” Crowley groaned.  “All right, I’ll bite.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Although…</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“It’s just that, well, we’ve requested literally hundreds of books for you, </span><em><span>Just</span></em> <em><span>Crowley</span></em><span>.  And yet I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen you check out a work of fiction.”  Aziraphale wiggled again.  As much as he loved reference work, his whole heart and soul lived for reader advisory, the art of connecting every person to just the right</span> <span>story at the right</span> <span>time.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope.  You haven’t.”  To judge by the way he popped the ‘p’, Crowley did not share his enthusiasm.  “Spend m’whole damn day researching facts.  Not about to waste my precious downtime reading a pack of </span>
  <em>
    <span>lies</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lies</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  Literature isn’t about lies!”  Aziraphale knew better than to argue with a patron, but … “The very </span>
  <em>
    <span>idea</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It sure isn’t about </span>
  <em>
    <span>truth</span>
  </em>
  <span>, now, is it?” Crowley seemed to be strangely passionate about the point.  “Fiction—it’s in the name, now, innit?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Quid est veritas</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> truth?”  Aziraphale quoted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Est vir qui adest</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Crowley flung back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite himself Aziraphale couldn’t help beaming with pure joy.  It wasn’t often someone could cap one of his classical allusions.  “Be that as it may, my dear, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>acknowledge the importance of immediate physical experience, </span>
  <em>
    <span>the man who stands before you </span>
  </em>
  <span>that is, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>Truth</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a complicated, slippery topic at times.  Fiction—well, that’s too restrictive, let’s say </span>
  <em>
    <span>stories</span>
  </em>
  <span> instead—is for those truths that are too big, too powerful, too </span>
  <em>
    <span>messy</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be captured in facts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley snorted.  “Oh, here’s where you start talking about, dunno, </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>justice </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>happiness </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>spiritual depth</span>
  </em>
  <span> and, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>ineffability</span>
  </em>
  <span>, right?”  His mouth twisted.  “Bollocks to that.  Your ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>stories</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ - ” he actually crooked his fingers to indicate the quotation marks “ - are about formulas and marketing.  Nothing more.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s not … entirely untrue,” Aziraphale conceded.  He wondered what could have possibly made the Demon so bitter and cynical about literature.  “Human beings are essentially pattern-seeking animals, after all.  It’s one of the reasons genre fiction is by far the most popular type of story.”  He shook his head.  “But the mere fact of being </span>
  <em>
    <span>satisfying</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn’t make a story </span>
  <em>
    <span>false</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t make it </span>
  <em>
    <span>true</span>
  </em>
  <span>, neither.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t know…”  Aziraphale mused.  “Einstein is credited, probably falsely, with defining ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Time</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ as ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>nature’s way to keep everything from happening all at once</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’  Stories, I do believe, are similar; they’re the </span>
  <em>
    <span>human </span>
  </em>
  <span>way to keep everything that does happen from being just a succession of random events.  They provide structure.  Shape.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Meaning</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley shrugged.  “Not everything means anything, Angel.  Most things don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then most things haven’t had the proper stories told about them,” the librarian retorted.  He eyed Crowley speculatively.  “If I recommended something to you, would you read it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh.  Had plenty of literature shoved in front of my eyeballs at school.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>All</span>
  </em>
  <span> the ‘Great Books’.” He made the air-quotes gesture again.  “Think I’ll pass, thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dear, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> a professional, you know.  Credit me with </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> ability to match book and reader.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t … don’t really care to read.”  Crowley slid further down in his chair, until he was practically horizontal, chin resting on his chest.  “Mean, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> read, just fine, but …”  He tapped his sunglasses.  “M’eyes … don’t like it much.  I’ve got special filters, text-to-speech, all that on my phone, my laptop … but black ink on white pages … yeah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not if I’m not getting paid for it.”  He sounded like he was confessing something shameful.  Maybe he thought a librarian would find such words to be heretical.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obscene</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he had been told that in the past.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale was rather shocked at the fierceness of the blazing rage that swept from his toes to his eyebrows at the notion of someone making </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>person, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley, Demon patron of the Tadfield Public Library, feel at all </span>
  <em>
    <span>less</span>
  </em>
  <span> just because of the way he chose to read.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Strictly because of his commitment to professional values, of course.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that explains your preference for audiobooks and digital content,” he said cheerfully.  “It’s a terrible pity that most materials are published in print only, of course, but I do wish you had told us earlier.  Not,” he added hastily, “that you were under any obligation to provide any sort of justification, of course.  Reading is reading, after all.  Your format of choice is only relevant to you, dear boy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> that he’d said anything that shocking.  “Would you be willing to try an audiobook that I chose for you?  I’d take it as a personal favor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got a quota, do you, Angel?”  Crowley sounded amused.  He was still sprawled in his chair, but now looked more relaxed than defeated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not exactly.  But I do get a bonus for every month we circulate more than fifty thousand items.”  Crowley’s eyebrows remained elevated, so the librarian hastily added, “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>joking</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you dreadful fiend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please don’t insult the patrons</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” the Demon mimicked.  “All right, very well, pick one out, I’ll listen.  Consider it my treat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Aziraphale hadn’t really thought that he’d agree.  He put his fingers to his lips, concentrating.  “You said </span>
  <em>
    <span>no classics</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I hope you don’t include </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> prize winners in that category, do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley waved a vague assent.  “Your call, Angel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, then, I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>the thing.”  He walked briskly over to the very end of the AV shelves and pulled out a small box, then brought it back to the desk, handing it over to Crowley with a happy wriggle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The redhaired patron looked at the title, turned the box over and read the summary on the back.  “Killer robots?” he asked skeptically.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s what you think will bring my life meaning?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We-e-elll,” Aziraphale pursed his lips judiciously.  “It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>about killer robots.  It’s also about identity, and free will, and found family.”  Also about forgiveness and the transformative power of stories, but he chose not to mention that.  “It’s only a novella, so it won’t take up too much of your free time, and it’s hilarious.  I had a feeling that you’d prefer the funny ones.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Huh.”  Crowley looked nonplussed, but hauled himself to his feet nonetheless.  “I s’pose I should check it out, then.  Pick up anything you’re holding for me while I’m at it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!  I just remembered!”  Aziraphale jumped up as well, and started for the shelves behind the desk.  “I noticed when I was in the back, it’s started absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>pouring</span>
  </em>
  <span> out there, and I am willing to wager practically any sum you’d like that you didn’t bring an umbrella today.  Here.”  He thrust a pale-blue tartan umbrella into the crook of the other’s elbow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No thanks, I couldn’t,” Crowley said, a little stunned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it, my dear, you can return it any time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, really, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” the Demon repeated, staring at the inoffensive pattern with utter revulsion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you won’t use it for yourself, use it for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>books</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale insisted.  “Once they’ve been soaked through, they’ll never be the same again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.  Right.”  Crowley took the umbrella, as if in a daze, and sauntered across the hall to the Circulation Desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale stood there and watched him until abruptly recalled to his responsibilities by the ringing of the phone.  “Tadfield Public Library, how can I help…  Oh dear.  Oh dear.  The Recycling Center?  Yes, we know, I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>terribly</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry …”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Endnote:  If you’re curious, the book Aziraphale recommends to Crowley is <i>All Systems Red</i>, by Martha Wells, first of The Murderbot Diaries.</p>
<p>Next week, even more self-indulgent nonsense, as everybody goes to play trivia!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 793.73 (Puzzles and puzzle games)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“Excellent,” Uriel nodded.  “The winners get a free round of drinks, so we take our trivia pretty seriously on this team.” </i>
</p>
<p>Librarians at a trivia contest.  What could possibly go wrong?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So. Much. Nonsense.  This chapter is dedicated to my fellow w0mb@ts out there, you know who you are.</p>
<p>Many thanks to burnttongueontea, beta extraordinaire!</p>
<p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Drinking.  Extraordinary amounts of alcohol. Some vulgar language.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The rain had stopped by the time the library closed at five.  Aziraphale was relieved, since he really hadn’t wanted to call for a taxicab.  (Naturally, he did not own an automobile, and walked everywhere he could, and took a bus everywhere he couldn’t walk.  Buses on Saturday nights in Tadfield were erratic at best, however.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The walk to The Fifth Horseman allowed him to work up a healthy appetite, and he enthusiastically perused the menu after sliding into the large booth already occupied by his trivia teammates.  “Why are you bothering?  Everybody already knows what you’re going to order,” Anathema asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You never know.  I might suddenly have the urge to try something new,” Aziraphale replied, turning the laminated sheet over. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You might,” Dagon Fischmann, Head of Technical Services (and Lord of the Files) observed drily.  “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>might</span>
  </em>
  <span> also show up one day dressed for the twenty-first century.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale was spared from replying by the hesitant approach of the Teen Librarian.  “Oh, yes, I hope you don’t mind, I invited young Newton to make up our fifth tonight, we are fairly weak on the popular culture front and today I was brought to appreciate the breadth of his knowledge—hullo, dear boy, delighted you can make it—Anathema my dear, please scoot over a bit closer to Uriel, there’s a love, now there’s room for Newton …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema patted the seat next to her in a welcoming enough fashion, although the glare she swiftly threw at her supervisor promised eventual revenge.  “Hey, Newt, you know everybody right?  We pretty much divide up by our selection duties when it comes to trivia subjects.  So Aziraphale gets the history and literature questions, Uriel hard sciences and the arts, I’ll answer the social science stuff—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>And </span>
  </em>
  <span>all the woo crap,” Dagon snarked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and Dagon bats cleanup and tells us all after the fact that she knew our answers were wrong,” Anathema concluded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay,” Newt said nervously. “I don’t think I know as much as Dr. Fell…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span>, dear boy, please.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, okay, Aziraphale thinks I do, but I’m pretty good on comics and old television shows and like that.  And even though you wouldn’t think it to watch me at work,” he smiled in self-deprecation, “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span> pretty up-to-date on computers and tech stuff, so I can help there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Excellent,” Uriel nodded.  “The winners get a free round of drinks, so we take our trivia pretty seriously on this team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The server appeared behind her, pen poised on menu pad.  “Drinks to start with?”  Everyone ordered beer, except for Aziraphale, who ordered a glass of the house red, and Uriel, who asked for fizzy water with a slice of lemon.  “Bee’s not coming, then?” she asked Dagon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cataloguer made a disgusted face. “Nah.  They said they were going to have to work late.  Michael’s been meddling again, and it will take them hours to undo the damage.”  She bared too many too sharp teeth in an expression that bore no resemblance to a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, what?” Newton asked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, you sweet summer child,” Anathema said, with a touch of condescension. “You’ve been here only a year, too soon to be up on all the interdepartmental politics.  Michael also has her MILS, you see, and considers herself far too competent to be a lowly Head of Circulation, which isn’t even a Librarian I.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinks that she ought to be a III, if not an AD, even though </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s only a II—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be fair, my dear, that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> choice, I didn’t want to have to do all the paperwork—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—so she keeps meddling with other departments, updating their policies and setting her clerks to do Collection Development, and she doesn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>ask</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Says that she has </span>
  <em>
    <span>backchannels</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if you can believe the nerve.” Anathema shook her head. “Last summer she had the absolute gall to print up flyers saying that we’d do family trees by appointment, that took me </span>
  <em>
    <span>forever</span>
  </em>
  <span> to sort out, I’m still getting requests.”  She gratefully accepted her hoppy IPA from the server who had arrived with a tray of mugs and glasses. “I cannot </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait </span>
  </em>
  <span>until she finally gets offered something from all those applications she keeps sending out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I knew that,” Newt said, taking a long swallow from his chocolate stout.  “I mean, she told Adam to draw up a list of graphic novels for purchase, he’s just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>page</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  I told him I was glad to take suggestions, of course, but ordering was my job.  He was just as happy; he would rather watch conspiracy videos on YouTube than </span>
  <em>
    <span>read about dumb superheroes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or so he said.”  He looked nervously at Dagon.  “I just didn’t know that you and Mx al-Zebul were such close friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon snorted.  “We’re not friends.  We don’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> each other.”  She took a dainty sip of her smallbatch sour ale.  “We’ve just been fucking on and off for a few years now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At this opportune moment the server came back to get their meal orders, which saved Newton from coming up with a coherent response.  When she reached Aziraphale, she said, “Fried oysters for starters, the beef stew with stout and maple syrup, and triple chocolate cake for dessert?” which naturally led to much laughter and good-natured teasing when he sheepishly nodded.  It was good to be among friends, Aziraphale thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Which was, of course, when he noticed the bright red hair on the black-clad figure seated alone at the bar.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema saw him staring, and glanced over.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No mames</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” she exclaimed.  “That Demon is here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So?”  Dagon pelted her with a crumpled napkin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you think …” Aziraphale fretted, “that I should go over and say hullo?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever for?” Uriel asked blankly.  “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We-ell, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a regular library patron …” Aziraphale pleated his own napkin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So are half the people here,” Uriel answered, far too reasonably. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone’s got a cru-ush</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Anathema sing-songed, which he thought was excessive retribution, even for his crime of inviting her own maybe-crush along for Trivia Night.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Who, bless him, promptly stepped in to change the subject.  “I’ve never done a trivia contest thing,” he confessed, “But I’ve seen it often enough on television shows.  Aren’t team names a big part of the whole …” he waved his hands. “... </span>
  <em>
    <span>aesthetic</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  What’s yours?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema and Dagon looked at each other.  “Weird Shit Left In The Book Drop Overnight!” they caroled in unison, and clinked their beer mugs together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Newton blinked.  “Er.  What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> team name, dear boy,” Aziraphale added, beaming.  “Remember that you’re on Our Side tonight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Trivia Night is sponsored by the business,” Uriel explained, bored.  “So team names are supposed to conform to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fifth Horseman</span>
  </em>
  <span> theme.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At Newton’s continued look of confusion, Aziraphale expounded.  “You know, as in the Apocalypse of St. John the Divine?  The Four Horsemen?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Horse</span>
  <em>
    <span>beings</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” interrupted Dagon, who was already almost finished with her second beer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“War, Famine, Pestilence, and so forth,” Aziraphale continued.  “The teams are expected to adopt a name indicating the universal human affliction which they consider most worthy of joining this dread company.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Understanding dawned.  “Oh, you mean like Microsoft?” Newton wondered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale coughed.  “Precisely, although I daresay there might be copyright issues in that particular choice.”  He pointed to a table nearby, where five serious-looking persons in expensive suits nursed their beers.  “Grievous Bodily Harm.”  Another, occupied by a rowdy group of young men in denim and flannels.  “Really Cool People.”  A third, of mixed ages and genders, including a few children running about and under the table.  “Things Not Working Properly Even After You’ve Given Them a Good Thumping.”  He smiled at Newton.  “There will be a few more teams here by the time the actual contest begins.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t forget our hereditary enemies,” Dagon smirked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, of course.”  He swiveled slightly in his seat to discreetly indicate a sober table of upright citizens of a certain age.  “The Fatty Spliffers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Newton gawked.  “That’s R. P. Tyler over there!” he squeaked, indicating the Chair of the Library Board of Trustees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it is,”  Uriel agreed.  “And he never lets us forget it, every time our team beats his.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But why is there a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dachshund</span>
  </em>
  <span> sitting at the table? With a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>pen</span>
  </em>
  <span> in its mouth?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon shrugged.  “Nothing in the rules says that all the members of the team have to be human.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As their meals arrived, and another round of drinks was ordered, the conversation became more general and moderately ribald.  Anathema, Aziraphale was pleased to notice, became gradually more relaxed around Newton, nudging him with her elbow to emphasize her punchlines, and even helping herself to some of his French fries without asking.  The young man, to his credit, only blushed and stammered a little, and managed to finish his meal without dragging his sleeve through the ketchup or knocking anything over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thought Aziraphale, much moved; </span>
  <em>
    <span>behold the transformative power of love</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At seven o’clock precisely, Carmine, the flame-haired server, stepped up to a microphone and tapped it a couple of times.  She grinned as the feedback squeal effectively silenced all conversation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, all you harbingers of doom, it’s the last Saturday of the month, it’s time for TRIVIA WARFARE!” she announced.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were loud cheers from tables throughout the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve got seven teams signed up tonight so far,” she went on.  “Anybody else?  You’ve got until approximately </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> to put up your entry fee and claim your spot.  Ha!  You over there!”  She pointed to a table where a woman was enthusiastically waving a handful of bills.  “What’s your nominee to be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“People Covered With Dead Fish!”  the woman hollered back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bold choice!” Carmine approved.  “Everybody welcome </span>
  <em>
    <span>People Covered With Dead Fish</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”  Scattered applause.  “Or better yet, don’t welcome ‘em, that’s gonna make for one slippery, stinky Armageddon!”  General laughter.  “The rest of the wannabe Horsemen competing tonight are </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really Cool People</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”  The table of young men whistled and wahoo’d.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Things Not Working Properly Even After You’ve Given Them a Good Thumping</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”  More cheers.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cruelty to Animals</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Grievous Bodily Harm</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Alcohol-Free Lager</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Each team received their round of applause.  “Last year’s overall high scorers, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fatty Spliffers</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”  R. P. Tyler actually stood up and took a bow.  “And our current champions, five months running, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weird Stuff</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“SHIT!” Dagon and Anathema yelled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Left In The Book Drop Overnight</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale was pleased to see Newton join in the loud clapping.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, all of you know how this works, right?  First up, Chalky will be coming around with a basket, everyone playing has to turn in their phone, don’t pretend that you haven’t got one, you’re all nerds, we know better.  And yes, that includes flip phones, Aziraphale Fell.” She pointed directly at him, while the rest of the room laughed and hooted. “Don’t bother to ask again!”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“It was only the one</span> <span>time,” Aziraphale grumbled.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, then,” as players pulled out their devices and surrendered them with varying degrees of graciousness to the pasty bartender. “Next up, Sable will pass out the official answer sheets.  You’ll see that they’re numbered 1 to 50.  Write your team name at the top, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing else</span>
  </em>
  <span> until I say so.  I’m going to read fifty questions, one every minute, that’s every sixty, </span>
  <em>
    <span>six-zero</span>
  </em>
  <span>, seconds.  You get one shot.  Anyone on your team can write the answer to any question, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>pen only</span>
  </em>
  <span>, anything in pencil or crossed out will count as a wrong answer, got it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shouts of “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Got it</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Move along</span>
  </em>
  <span>” answered her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All disputes will be referred to the Grim Reaper his own self, he owns the joint, good luck trying to appeal.  Any questions?  Too bad, ‘cause I’m asking all the questions here.”  As the other two staff returned, she pulled a clipboard out from behind the bar.  “Okay, we’ll start with an easy one to warm you all up.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Question one: What is the nickname for a baby wombat?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Uriel seized the answer sheet and a pen and began writing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More questions were fired at a rapid pace, and the librarians passed the page around like the highly trained and organized information professionals that they were.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Longest river flowing South to North?</span>
  </em>
  <span> (Aziraphale.)  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Three locations on Earth where the US flag flies 24/7?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  (Anathema.)  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Animal that can live in outer space?</span>
  </em>
  <span> (Uriel again.)  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Middle name of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer? </span>
  </em>
  <span> (A moment of hesitation, then Newton signaled for the sheet.)  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Youngest Civil War general?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  (Aziraphale placed the pen on the paper, then stopped.  Seconds ticked by while he tapped his pen against his upper lip; Carmine had begun to read the next question, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sunshine Biscuits’ competitor to the Oreo?</span>
  </em>
  <span> when Aziraphale hastily wrote two words down, and slid the paper over to Dagon.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So it continued for almost an hour of intense concentration, scribbling, whispered consultations, and muttered cursing, until an answer to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Question fifty: Who wrote The Book of Counted Sorrows?</span>
  </em>
  <span>  was inscribed with a flourish by Aziraphale just as Carmine called, “Time!  Pens down!” and the elegant dark-skinned bartender came around again to collect each team’s answer sheets and Chalky took orders for a reviving round of drinks. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ten minutes later, Carmine came out again with an enormous grin.  “All right, ya nerds, we’ve got some results!  Question one, a baby wombat is called </span>
  <em>
    <span>a joey</span>
  </em>
  <span>, every team got that, points all round!” And so it went, answers announced to mixed applause and groans, the Fatty Spliffers quickly taking first place due to an unfortunate slip on Anathema’s part (“I cannot </span>
  <em>
    <span>believe</span>
  </em>
  <span> that I put </span>
  <em>
    <span>the moon</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a location on Earth, I haven’t had </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much to drink!”); but Aziraphale just tapped his nose and smiled enigmatically at her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carmine reached the sixth question—“The youngest Civil War general was Galusha Pennypacker, I swear I am not making that name up, and neither were teams Really Cool People, Alcohol-Free Lager, and the Fatty Spliffers, who retain the lead!  Question seven—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um.  Ahem.  Excuse me…”  Aziraphale stood up.  “I don’t mean to be difficult, but there’s one thing I’m not clear on.”  Several regulars groaned loudly.  He ignored them.   “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Which</span>
  </em>
  <span> civil war would that happen to be?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Civil War,” Carmine frowned.  “You know.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>The</span>
  </em>
  <span> Civil War.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, well, there have been a great number of civil wars,” Aziraphale went on.  “And since you did not </span>
  <em>
    <span>specify</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it seems that the question refers to the youngest known general in </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them.”  He clasped his hands behind him and rocked back on his heels.  “And that would be Gaius Octavius, later known as the Emperor Augustus, who before he reached his twentieth year was granted the power of a general by the Roman Senate in order to pursue the assassins of Julius Caesar, as is noted on my team’s answer sheet.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carmine and Chalky and Sable looked at each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t know</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Newton realized.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just leave it the way it’s already written!” R. P. Tyler declaimed in a loud voice.  An enthusiastic flurry of barks from his lap supported the point.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, dear.  I’m afraid that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> appeal,” Aziraphale said, still in his most genial voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll do it,” Sable sighed.  He went behind the bar to rap on the closed door with a sign in large unfriendly red letters </span>
  <em>
    <span>There’s Only One Deadline, &amp; That’s Too Late</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “Boss?  Are you here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door cracked open and a deep, sepulchral voice echoed “OF COURSE I AM HERE.  I AM ALWAYS HERE.  WHAT DO YOU WANT </span>
  <em>
    <span>NOW</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sable’s words were an unintelligible murmur, but the answer was clear.  “AN APPEAL?  FROM WHO?  NOT THAT FUSSY LITTLE NUISANCE OF A LIBRARIAN AGAIN, IS IT?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale straightened his bowtie, tugged the bottom of his waistcoat, and shot an apologetic smile to nobody in particular.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“OH, GO AHEAD AND GIVE IT TO HIM.  YOU KNOW HE’S RIGHT, WHATEVER IT IS.  HE ALWAYS IS.  TWAT.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sable reemerged and went over to talk to his fellow staff members.  Carmine sighed, and went back to the microphone.  “All right, all right.  Upon appeal, the correct answer has been changed to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gaius Octavius</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the point goes to team Weird Stuff—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“SHIT!” all five librarians yelled, triumphantly drumming on the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—Left In The Book Drop Overnight.  Now, moving on to question seven…”</span>
</p>
<p><span>And so it went for the rest of the questions, the lead ricocheting back and forth between the library team and the Fatty Spliffers, until the final answer—“</span><em><span>either ‘Dean Koontz’ </span></em><span>or</span><em><span> ‘no one’ </span></em><span>is</span> <span>acceptable, and we’ve got one of each, which means that with 45 points, for the sixth consecutive month, our Fifth Horseman—”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Horse </span>
  <em>
    <span>entity</span>
  </em>
  <span>…” Dagon slurred into her folded arms on the table.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“is Weird Stuff—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“SHIT!” the entire room hollered (with the exception of the Fatty Spliffers, although the dachshund offered up a supportive yelp.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“—Left In The Book Drop Overnight!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The table erupted with cheers and hugs and the sort of sloppy joyous triumph that is most often expressed by a group of persons dedicated to a common endeavor lubricated by quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol.  Aziraphale accepted a rather surprising embrace from Uriel (despite the latter’s steadfast refusal of anything more intoxicating than a fizzy lemonade) and was delighted to observe Anathema plant a smacking openmouthed kiss on the cheek of a stunned Newton.  Dagon had raised herself from the table sufficiently to demand the return of her phone so she could immediately text her frenemy-with-benefits with all the details.  Carmine materialized behind Aziraphale in order to receive the team’s choice for their winning drinks, and he took it upon himself to order Courvoisier all around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was awarded more than one raised eyebrow as he passed around the brandy snifters, but nonetheless insisted that their half-year’s worth of victories deserved to be toasted with something </span>
  <em>
    <span>suitable.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Don’t be silly, Uriel my dear, you can still serve as designated driver after a single drink!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Newt sniffed his dubiously.  “I’m not sure about this.  I’m really more of a beer type of guy …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon immediately reached for his glass—“I’ll take it off your hands”—causing a giggling Anathema to slap her hand away.  “Nonsense, it’ll put hair on your chest!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t wanna horn in on your celebrations,” a low voice breathed in Aziraphale’s left ear, raising the most delightful </span>
  <em>
    <span>frisson</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “But congratulations to all of you.  That was surprisingly fun to watch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He spun around to catch Crowley lifting his beer in a quiet toast.  “Oh goodness, my dear, you startled me!  I often wonder how our antics appear to spectators without a, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>stake</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as it were, in the competition.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh, who says I don’t have a stake, hmm?  Hafta validate my reliance on your reference services somehow.”  Crowley smirked at him.  “Gotta say, I was very impressed at your little stunt with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>youngest generals</span>
  </em>
  <span> question.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale looked down modestly, hoping that he wasn’t blushing.  “I must admit that, although contests of this sort do not allow much opportunity for, er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>tactics</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I do seize them when they arrive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing,” the other mused, and now Aziraphale could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the color rise on his cheeks, and he looked at his reflection in those dark glasses (and how on Earth could the fellow even </span>
  <em>
    <span>see</span>
  </em>
  <span> in these dark environs?) and Crowley parted his lips to say something, and …</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, isss That Demon!” Anathema slurred, leaning heavily on Aziraphale’s shoulder.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Qué pedo, wey</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley glanced at Aziraphale.  “Did Prophecies Girl just call me a child molester?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered, lips pursed.  “Best not to ask, I’ve found.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley!” Anathema reached out to pat Crowley on the arm, but missed, slapping his chest instead.  “Didya see us win?  Didya notice how clever your </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel</span>
  </em>
  <span> wass?  Didya ssee my Newt be brilliant with all hizzz …” she waved her hands, slapping him again “… </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowledge </span>
  </em>
  <span>an’ stuff?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did,” Crowley nodded solemnly.  “I also saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> confuse the Earth and the Moon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, ‘snot like I was talkin’ ‘bout Alpha Centauri or somethin’,” she shrugged.  “Also, ‘m very drunk.  You should take ‘Ziraphale home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Anathema</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” hissed Aziraphale, scandalized, at the same time that Crowley raised his eyebrows and asked, “Why?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cause</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Anathema enunciated with hyper-precision, “Uriel’s driving us all home in her itty-bitty car and I can’t snog Newt in the back seat if my sssupervisor’s right between us.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll call for a taxi,” a mortified Aziraphale informed Crowley, who had thrown back his head and laughed with a carefree abandon that was really quite attractive.  “Or walk, even.  It’s a fine evening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel, it’s gone raining again, and your umbrella’s still in my car.  It’s not a problem, really.” And now Crowley was smiling at him </span>
  <em>
    <span>gently</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which was dreadfully unfair of him, and Aziraphale had had entirely too much to drink, and before he knew it he was standing in the parking lot with a plastic bag to keep his head dry and watching Crowley’s fiery hair start to curl in the wet as he unlocked a terrifyingly vintage-appearing vehicle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What a beautiful automobile,” he said politely, as he slid into the passenger seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>lit up</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “Isn’t she, though?  The chassis is a 1933 Bentley, you know, the Rolls-Royce model, the engine is also mostly original, modified heavily of course to pass a modern inspection, I had to have a lot of work put into the interior, but I tried to stick as close to the aesthetic as possible, and you don’t know a thing about cars and don’t really care, do you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale couldn’t help laughing, but was flooded with a peculiar fondness.  “No, but it is truly lovely to see you so passionate about something.  Most of the time, no matter how you argue with me, I feel like you don’t actually care one way or the other about the answers you receive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ngk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  Crowley made one of his odd noises as he started the engine.  He braced his arm on the seat behind Aziraphale, turning to look out the rear window as he backed up; his fingers brushed against the librarian’s neck, provoking a not-at-all-uncomfortable flutter somewhere about Aziraphale’s midsection.  “Might not care about the </span>
  <em>
    <span>answers</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  S’fun to watch you get all worked up about ‘em, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale decided that the bubbles fizzing behind his breastbone were caused by irritation.  “Well, I am glad that we entertain you, at the least.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The other didn’t answer, apparently concentrating on his driving.  Which was certainly </span>
  <em>
    <span>preferable</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Aziraphale thought with some alarm, since Crowley was driving far too fast for Tadfield’s sedate streets, even on a Saturday night.  Then, with his hands gripped tightly to the steering wheel, Crowley mumbled, “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s why </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Aziraphale asked, annoyed with himself for the ungrammatical form of the question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What you asked before.  This afternoon, I mean.”  Crowley still stared fixedly ahead. “Why I keep coming back to the public library.  Even though all those other libraries do have more books and databases and stuff.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale looked at him, a little agape.  “Because you think we’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>amusing</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no no!” Crowley slapped the wheel in frustration, evoking an inadvertent </span>
  <em>
    <span>HONK</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “I mean … S’nice place.  Feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Feels … </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I just … like being there, y’know?  All the books, and the old wood, and, and the big windows, and … and the … people.  I … new in town, don’t know anybody, don’t like people much anyhow but, but … like you.  I mean, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of you,” he added, with what Aziraphale considered unnecessary vehemence.  “’Cept for the General, the one at checkout.”  He scowled.  “She’s a right bi-, I mean, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitter person</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale honestly didn’t know what to say.  Fortunately, the automobile had just pulled up outside his home.  “Ah.  Well.  Here’s me, then.”  Still, he made no move to exit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So … was thinking …”  Crowley relaxed his deathgrip on the steering wheel.  He turned slightly to face Aziraphale, then his eyebrows shot up comically.  He peered out the side window.  “Angel, you live in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bookshop</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  With your </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span> on it?  Bit extra, don’t you think?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not a shop … well, it used to be.”  Aziraphale looked at the façade of his home through fresh eyes.  It was so familiar to him that he hardly ever actually saw it.  “It was my family’s.  Started by my, hmm, five-times-great-grandfather, he was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>first</span>
  </em>
  <span> A Z Fell, over two hundred years ago.”  He sighed, a bit wistfully.  “One really can’t make a living in the secondhand book trade these days.  Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> could, but I can’t; haven’t the head for business myself.  Still, I deal every now and then in the high-end antiquarian business, do some repairs by appointment, keep my hand in, as it were.”  He resisted the mad urge to invite Crowley in, share his family’s heritage, point out some of his favorite first editions, maybe show off a bit with some of the restorations he was particularly proud of, and how embarrassing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dull </span>
  </em>
  <span>would that be for the poor fellow?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Suits you.”  The corners of Crowley’s mouth tuck into an uncertain smile.  “But … it’s still early, innit?  You wanna go somewhere first, get a nightcap?  Or … a coffee or something?  Anywhere you want to go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Aziraphale looked at his hands, wondering how to answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean … I’m not … Just a friendly cup of coffee,” Crowley said hurriedly.  “As, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course.  How silly he had been to think otherwise.  But… “Crowley, we’re not friends.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.  Right.”  The other man’s lip curled.  “I get that.  You’re an Angel, and I’m … </span>
  <em>
    <span>That Demon.</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nonononono</span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>,”  Aziraphale responded instantly, leaning forward with dismay.  “I never … Oh, don’t take it that way.  I am always delighted when you come to the library.  Your questions are always so intriguing, and … you yourself are a pleasure to work with.  Truly.  It’s just …”  He sat back, twisting his fingers together.  “I am a </span>
  <em>
    <span>librarian</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  You are a </span>
  <em>
    <span>patron</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  We’re on opposite sides of the reference desk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, he was making an absolute hash of this.  Crowley was looking at him like he was crazy, and he didn’t blame him at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh-kay,” Crowley said slowly.  “So, like, as far as I know, doctors, lawyers, therapists, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>prostitutes</span>
  </em>
  <span> are allowed to be friends with their clients.  But not </span>
  <em>
    <span>librarians</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  It’s against your … professional ethics to…” he sneered, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>fraternize</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale cast his eyes down to his lap in misery.  He could hardly explain that it wasn’t an ethical issue, not exactly.  He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>friendly</span>
  </em>
  <span> with any number of library regulars, but hardly </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>; that, however, was entirely by his own choice.  Even among his colleagues, he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the vulnerabilities of a real friendship; Anathema had practically bullied her way into the position. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Still, that wasn’t the problem.  Part of him longed to become friends with Crowley.  It would be lovely, he thought wistfully, to have someone his own age, someone as clever and witty and </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Crowley, to go for a late-night coffee with, to join for a casual weekend brunch, maybe to visit museums and plays together … he could see it so easily. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>ached</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No.  The real issue was that Aziraphale was horribly certain that he himself hadn’t sufficient control over his emotions to keep things at the level of friendship.  And that path, he knew, led inevitably to positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>apocalyptic</span>
  </em>
  <span> heartbreak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To try to be friends with Crowley was simply too dangerous.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But he couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> any of that.  Not with words, at any rate.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, he tried to explain it all with his eyes.  “I have my standards,” he offered up inadequately.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.”  Crowley wasn’t looking at him.  “Fine.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”  He sighed, and pasted on a tired smile.  “See you later this week.  At the reference desk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Quite.  Er.  Thank you for the lift.”  Aziraphale unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the car, feeling like he had made a terrible, irrevocable error.  He circled around to wave awkwardly through the driver’s side window.  “Mind how you go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley leaned back against his seat and closed his eyes.  “Well.  That was a Thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>In case you were wondering, no, Aziraphale didn’t remember to take his umbrella.</p>
<p>Apologies for the abrupt tone shift at the end, but I wanted to keep both scenes under the “Puzzles” chapter title.  My outline for this was originally, “Trivia contest.  C drives A home.”  Somehow that turned into almost five thousand words of silliness and drama.  Which is why I don’t recommend taking that final chapter count too seriously.</p>
<p>Next week, everybody gets an angsty (not really) backstory!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 658.812 (Customer service)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>“I am sure that our patrons aren’t here to gossip about petty library management issues,” Aziraphale said. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Actually…” Crowley put in.</i>
</p>
<p>Want some backstory on your crush?  Why not just go ahead and <i>ask</i>?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A thousand thanks, as always, to burnttongueontea for the beta!</p>
<p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Crowley has a potty mouth; unspecified bigotry: could be Islamophobia, could be queerphobia, could be a combination, could be sheer dickishness.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Despite the fears that Aziraphale had been (rather unsuccessfully) hiding for days, Crowley did appear at his normal time on Wednesday afternoon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale was partnered on the desk with Anathema again, and Crowley turned his head back and forth as he took in their attire.  Finally he drawled, amusement dripping from every word, “All right, what is it?  National Put-Things-On-Your-Head Day?  I mean, I know Hallowe’en, and World Book Character Day, and Talk-Like-A-Pirate Day, but my calendar app missed whatever this is.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema just gave him a glare (she had no idea why Aziraphale had been so jittery, but she was quite certain that it was That Demon’s fault) and smoothed the rather spectacular purple/green/turquoise (depending on how the light hit it) silk scarf she had wrapped around her head and neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale merely lifted his eyebrows and said, “I have no idea what you mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, all right, let’s turn it into a Reference question.  Then you’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>professionally obligated </span>
  </em>
  <span>to answer.”  Aziraphale thought that there might be a hidden undercurrent of venom in that turn of phrase; then again, it could just be Crowley’s habitual sarcasm.  “Why might every single member of a certain library’s staff, from a Circulation Supervisor with a white lace veil pinned to her hair, to a stuffy traditional Answer Angel in a downright hideous tartan scarf, be wearing something on their head on a particular day?”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“Oh, </span><em><span>gods</span></em><span>, isn’t it awful?” Anathema immediately abandoned the silent treatment in offended-fashionista solidarity.  “It must be hot, and itch like </span><em><span>anything</span></em><span>, and I offered to let him borrow a blue and cream shawl that would look </span><em><span>adorable</span></em><span>, but you know Aziraphale, he’s all </span><em><span>no, no, must be from my own closet or it would obviate the point</span></em><span>, like Gabriel even knows the meaning</span> <span>of ‘obviate’…”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Nonsense, my dear.  Tartan is </span>
  <em>
    <span>stylish</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Besides, there is no particular </span>
  <em>
    <span>point</span>
  </em>
  <span> being made.”  Aziraphale manifested a patently over-innocent expression.  “The staff is merely exercising their free choice in matters of style while conforming </span>
  <em>
    <span>strictly</span>
  </em>
  <span> to the City dress code.  It is merely a </span>
  <em>
    <span>coincidence</span>
  </em>
  <span> that so many seemed to have made the same decision today.  Otherwise, it would be, ahem, a ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>divisive political or religious statement</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ which is of course completely outside of our policy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley worked his jaw as if he were literally chewing that statement over. Finally, he asked, “So who’s trying to strip the Lord of Hell of their hijab?  It’s that Purple Penis, isn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley!  Don’t make me </span>
  <em>
    <span>hush</span>
  </em>
  <span> you!” Aziraphale implored.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At the same moment, Anathema burst into laughter.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Purple Penis</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  Oh, that’s perfect!”  She pulled out her telephone, and began texting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anathema, phones away at the desk, please, you can share juvenile nicknames with Dagon later,” Aziraphale admonished, feeling very put-upon and rather like a fourth-grade teacher.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was texting </span>
  <em>
    <span>Newt</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she pouted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And as for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale turned his frown to That Demon, “It </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Assistant Director, it was a member of the Board of Trustees.  And please refrain from referring to the Children’s Department as an infernal region.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Funny how I didn’t mention any names, yet you knew </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span> who I was talking about,” Crowley smirked. “Anyways, if a mere </span>
  <em>
    <span>patron</span>
  </em>
  <span> can join the party …” He slid his glittery silver neck-ornament off and snapped it open, revealing a skinny scarf.  He casually draped it over his artfully-mussed hairstyle and flung the ends over one shoulder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It looked flattering, fashionable, and as if it had never been meant to be worn any other way.  Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema squealed in delight and took a snapshot with her phone.  “Mind if I post this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah,” he grinned, as Aziraphale said, “Anathema, please don’t aggravate the situation, I am certain that the Director will understand and fix everything as soon as we speak with her…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure.”  She rolled her eyes.  “I’ve worked here for years and haven’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>met</span>
  </em>
  <span> her.  Gabriel led my job interview in her place, remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, she is very … </span>
  <em>
    <span>busy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Aziraphale glared at his fingers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>daring</span>
  </em>
  <span> them to start intertwining without his permission.  “But I am sure that our patrons aren’t here to gossip about petty library management issues.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>“Actually…” Crowley put in.  “I mean, not </span><em><span>gossip</span></em><span>, exactly …”</span> <span>He trailed off and hesitated.  “Um.  I have a … favor to ask you.  Uh.  </span><em><span>Both</span></em><span> of you.” He raked thin fingers through his hair, dislodging the makeshift headscarf.  “So.  One of my … clients … wants me to … do a thing about librarians.  And you two … yeah.  I thought maybe you’d … talk about how you got like this.”  He waved vaguely in their direction, then busied himself rearranging the strip of cloth on his head. </span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley, we are literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>paid</span>
  </em>
  <span> to sit here and answer any questions you care to ask,” Aziraphale said patiently.  “I’m sure that anyone here would be delighted to expound at length about the profession.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.  Well.  I think the client wants me to go in a more, uh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal</span>
  </em>
  <span> direction.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I knew it!”  Anathema clapped her hands in delight.  “You write tailored pornography for niche fetish enthusiasts!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wot? </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It explains </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the ferrets and the tanks and the—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel,” Crowley interrupted.  “I hate to break it to you, but I think there’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Prophecies Girl.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I apologize for my colleague,” Aziraphale responded primly.  “She has a peculiar sense of humor.  But really, I’m not sure that I’m comfortable either, with any enquiries of an, h’h’r’m, </span>
  <em>
    <span>intimate</span>
  </em>
  <span> nature.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, not like that!” Now Crowley seemed agitated. “Just a little more, argggh, y’know, informal and, and friendly-like than degree requirements and mission statements and all that!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t mind,” Anathema said cheerfully.  “Ask me anything you like.  But we could make it more, oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sporting</span>
  </em>
  <span> if you’re willing.”  She flashed a wicked grin.  “For every question you ask </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>, we get an answer from </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Fair enough?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.  Sure.  Open book, me.”  Crowley’s words were directed towards her, but his head was tilted towards Aziraphale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, very well,” he sighed.  He supposed that he could always refuse to answer, after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.  Good.”  Crowley scrolled down a list he had on his phone.  “So.  How’d’ya end up here?  And by ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ I mean ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, right behind that specific desk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, an hour ago, in the breakroom, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was being the hardass supervisor, and I was technically on reference duty,” Anathema answered with mock seriousness, “and I was trying to get my lunch over early, but he acted like I had skipped out on my shift, and …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley shook his head and pinched his fingers together, cutting her off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema laughed.  “Okay, okay. So I grew up in California, and my family, well, let’s say there’s some money there, and they all expected me to go into the family business, but I wanted to have more choices in life.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The family business?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked uncomfortable.  “Uh.  Finance.  Investments.  I don’t …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait a minute.  Wait …” Crowley typed furiously on his phone.  “Device, Device … </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  Look at that!”  He grinned at her.  “All along I’ve been calling you </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prophecies Girl</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when I should have been saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hedge-Fund Witch</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema’s eyes darted about a bit nervously, as if checking to see if anyone were listening.  Aziraphale stepped in.  “That’s neither here nor there.  What Ms Device chose </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do is hardly pertinent to your question.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right.” She smiled at him gratefully.  “What </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> important is that I took a year off to come here to Tadfield.  An ancestor of mine, sort of semi-famous, lived here a long time ago, and I wanted to learn more about her.  Maybe annotate and publish her book of prophecies.  And while doing the research, I got to know this idiot?”  She gave Aziraphale an affectionate punch to the shoulder.  “And he sorta encouraged me to go for my library degree, and then this position opened up, and …” She shrugged.  “It’s this town, you know.  The people who stick around really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> love it.  It’s hard not to get sucked into it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale nodded.  “Which explains what I’m doing here as well.  I … mentioned that my family has lived here forever.  I did go away to university, thought I’d have an academic career, but, well …” He trailed off and looked at his hands.  “It turns out that as much as I enjoyed </span>
  <em>
    <span>learning</span>
  </em>
  <span> about literature, I really didn’t have anything new to </span>
  <em>
    <span>say</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it.  And the thought of spending my life lecturing bored students, whilst churning out endless papers on the declension of pronouns in Chaucer …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait a minute,” Crowley interrupted.  “Did you actually say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>whilst</span>
  </em>
  <span>’?  Like this is a word that real people use?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never mind,” Aziraphale said.  “It’s obviously more important to mock my diction than to get an answer to your question.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Arghh, no, I’m sorry, Angel.  Look, this is me apologizing, all right?  Please, go on with your story.  I’m listening.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There isn’t really much more to it,” Aziraphale admitted, somewhat mollified.  “I more or less fell into picking up the MILS degree, then realized that I honestly enjoyed, well, giving things away.  Books, films, information … it’s tremendous fun, really.  Even handing out pens at the desk can provide a little lift in a dreary day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just like showing off your magic tricks,” Anathema grinned at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley perked up.  “Wait, what?  Magic tricks?  How’d I miss that one?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You,” Anathema informed him solemnly, “are going to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>so sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> you asked.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, hush, my dear.”  Aziraphale regarded Crowley with a speculative air.  “It isn’t anything all that impressive.  It’s just … oh, wait.  Crowley, you’ve got a little something …” he scratched below his right ear.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I know, it’s a tattoo, surely you’ve seen one before,” Crowley responded, deadpan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, really?”  He brightened.  “Do you mind if I take a closer look?  Oh, thank you.”  He stepped around the desk and leaned in, very close.  That Demon looked up, bright red spots on his cheeks.  “That </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a handsome tattoo, but … yes, there’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>else.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He slid his fingers gently behind Crowley’s ear, heroically ignoring the softness of that auburn hair.  “O-ho, what’s this?  Could it be?” He waved the item that he had tucked in his sleeve in front of the other’s face.  “A Tadfield Public Library pen!” He spread his fingers and the pen dropped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley barely caught it.  “It was up your sleeve,” he accused.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was in your ear,” Aziraphale beamed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was nowhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>near</span>
  </em>
  <span> my ear,” Crowley grumbled.  “Dead embarrassing, that was.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Told you,” Anathema said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shrugged, his smile not dimming a single watt.  “The children like it.  Or pretend to, anyhow.  You don’t need to keep the pen.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh, might as well,” Crowley said, with exaggerated indifference.  “Can use that rubber thingy on the tip as a stylus, I expect.”  He tucked it into his jacket’s inside pocket.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, is that what it’s for?” Aziraphale picked another pen out of the mug on the desk and peered at it.  “I kept trying to use it as an eraser.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Your turn, Crowley,” Anathema interjected.  “You owe us an answer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Never broke a contract in my life,” he assured her, chin lifted.  “Give it your best shot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> you do for a living?” she challenged him.  “And what do all your weird questions have to do with it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He raised a quizzical eyebrow.  “Didn’t I just say?  I write.  Or, to be more accurate, I read, I digest, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>re</span>
  </em>
  <span>-write.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale leaned forward, the question on the tip of his tongue.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before he could say a word, Crowley raised a finger.  “No, Angel, you couldn’t have seen my writing, it’s not for publication, I have a … let’s say, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exclusive</span>
  </em>
  <span> client list for personally tailored … product, which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not in any way</span>
  </em>
  <span> pornographic, sorry to disappoint the crazy witch person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how …” Anathema started.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-unh,” Crowley wagged the finger.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>One</span>
  </em>
  <span> question.  My turn.”  He scrolled his phone briefly.  “All right.  Personal life.  Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> personal.  Like hobbies.  Or, um, sports.  Y’know.  And how it interacts with …” he waved a hand vaguely at the room. “All this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve already mentioned my ancestor’s prophecies, and how they brought me here,” Anathema jumped in.  “I’ve learned a great deal about the occult from her.  And I think that her writings … guide me?  Ground me?  Make me more open-minded and receptive to … alternatives?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You really </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> a witch, then?”  Crowley sounded skeptical.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inasmuch as ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>witch</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ derives from a word meaning ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>wise</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, I like to think so,” she answered haughtily.  “But yes, I do identify as a Wiccan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and I’m a Demon, remember, so I’m totally cool with that,” he grinned.  Anathema sniffed.  “What about you, Angel?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, Anathema and I have had many interesting conversations on the topic,” Aziraphale said.  “We don’t always agree, of course.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>agree, boss,” she corrected him.  “You are completely blind to unconventional reality.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dear, I don’t …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley cut in.  “I mean what are </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>hobbies?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.  Hmm.”  Aziraphale looked thoughtful.  “Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.  I read.  I repair books, as I’ve said.  I enjoy finding interesting little restaurants and exotic cuisines, well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>exotic</span>
  </em>
  <span> for Tadfield at any rate.  I enjoy theatre, and classical music.  Quite the fuddy-duddy, really.  Never been one for sports …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not true,” Anathema said, with a teasing lilt in her voice.  “You told me you used to fight, back in the day.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fight</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”  Crowley leaned forward.  “Boxing, like?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Aziraphale assured him.  “Broadsword.  Two-handed, mostly.  Sometimes hand-and-a-half.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley’s jaw dropped.  “You’re bullshi-, um.  Making that up.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The Medieval Studies Department sponsored a re-enactment group,” he explained.  “Learned any number of useful things.  Swordfighting, archery, riding, all sorts of martial arts, of course.  Blacksmithing.  Brewing.  Weaving, a little.  But all that was a long time ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not that long,” Anathema insisted.  She turned to Crowley.  “That’s how we met.  Not at the library.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell that story,” Aziraphale begged.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you</span>
  <em>
    <span> have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to, now,” That Demon breathed.  “You have no idea how much I need to hear this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My first day in Tadfield, I got lost,” Anathema started.  “So I got to this big green space, I later learned it’s the Town Center, and started looking for someone to ask for help.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale covered his face with his hands.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And when you grow up looking like me, in a big city in California, you learn pretty quick not to trust the cops for help, right?” she went on.  “And there’s this guy standing by the entrance—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The eastern gate,” Aziraphale put in, somewhat muffled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.  And he’s in </span>
  <em>
    <span>armor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, can you believe it, coat of mail, all shiny and silver, and the helmet and everything, and this long white cloak with fluffy fur like enormous </span>
  <em>
    <span>wings</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The cloak was not mine, you can’t blame me for </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I didn’t know that.  All I knew was that there he was, looking almost exactly like some Pre-Raphaelite White Knight, and I thought, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, if I’m not safe with Sir Galahad here</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ –”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ugh.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Galahad,” Crowley interjected, fascinated.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Definitely not,” Aziraphale agreed, removing his hands from his hands and tapping the desk for emphasis.  “I’d prefer Belvedere, perhaps, or Kai, before the Norman re-interpretations traduced his character.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine with it if you’d rather tell the story,” Anathema snipped and Aziraphale fell silent, abashed.  She continued, “So I go and ask this person straight out of a fairy tale if he knew where the public library was, and he lifted his visor to reveal this cherubic face positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>glowing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and in the softest, poshest voice I’ve ever heard says, ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>my dear girl, let me escort you, do you have your library card yet</span>
  </em>
  <span>?’ and I’m waiting for him to whistle up his noble steed, but he just offers me his elbow and how could I resist?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale shook his head.  “It wasn’t like that at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The local amateur theater ensemble—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“LARPers,” Anathema said in a stage whisper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Had requested my assistance with an outside event—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You heard about it and wriggled your way in—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My. Good. Lady,” Aziraphale pronounced with awful solemnity, “I let you tell your version without corrections.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ha! You did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>missing the important point!” Crowley overrode their bickering.  “The point is, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>point</span>
  </em>
  <span> is, do you still have the outfit and when will you wear it so I can see?”  Both librarians turned to stare.  He turned bright red.  “To, uh, verify the story.  Add a little color to my, um, report. Writing-thingy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My apologies, dear boy,” Aziraphale said.  “I don’t have the armor anymore.  I … I told you about my … well, anyways, I gave it away.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>wot</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” said Crowley, at the exact same moment Anathema said, “Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> armor, my dear, I had made it myself, and that charming young fellow in their troupe asked so prettily, and they had a performance coming on, and the little ones were so delighted at the costume…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“… and the actor you gave it to had those stunning black curls, and the most amazing shoulders, I remember him now …” Anathema rolled her eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Really, Anathema, there’s no need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>insinuate</span>
  </em>
  <span>…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyways, Crowley, does that answer your question?”  Anathema smiled brightly at the still gobsmacked redhead.  “Because I think it’s Aziraphale’s turn to ask now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh.  Okay,” Crowley stammered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I don’t think …” Aziraphale said, nearly in harmony.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“C’mon, Aziraphale, it’s your chance to turn the tables,” she said wickedly.  “Be nosy.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pry</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  You know you want to.  Why is he in Tadfield, really?  Where did he live before?  What does the J in his name stand for?  What’s he hiding behind those shades?  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Indulge</span>
  </em>
  <span> yourself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Well.”  Aziraphale looked at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.  He peered at Crowley, whose face was still a little pink but didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>seem</span>
  </em>
  <span> nervous, but how could you tell what he was thinking behind those sunglasses, really?  Aziraphale smiled gently at him.  “Are you enjoying the book I recommended?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley looked at him, then Anathema.  She shrugged.  He turned back to Aziraphale.  “Uh.  Yes.  Yes, I did.  Finished it, and checked out the next one, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear it,” he beamed.  “What did you think of the main character?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The droid?”  Crowley scratched the back of his neck.  “It was … I mean, unreliable narrator, but funny.  Totally badass, yeah, but unexpectedly … endearing.  I liked the way it was completely soppy sentimental, but acted like it wasn’t.  And all that shit blowing up, that was cool.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Indeed,” Aziraphale nodded.  “I am intrigued that you refer to the character as </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley bristled.  “That’s how it thought of itself.  That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>important</span>
  </em>
  <span> to it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I agree,” he said.  “It’s just interesting.  Most audio readers, however, find it hard to override the narrator’s masculine voice and would say ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span>’.  I’m impressed that you didn’t, that’s all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh …” Crowley twitched in the seat a bit, hunching his shoulders.  “Presentation isn’t everything.  A baritone voice don’t make necessarily make you male.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Anathema startled, and mouthed a silent </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She shot a sharp glance at Aziraphale, who shook his head minutely.  “Certainly not,” he said.  “No more than wearing a hijab makes you female.”  He paused a moment.  “I hope that you’ll permit me to recommend more books to you sometime.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.  Why not.  Sure.”  Crowley still seemed discomfited.  “Think I got enough to start writing now.  Might ask some more sometime, if that’s okay.  Later, Angel.  Witch.”  He sauntered away from the desk, albeit a little less fluidly than usual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Have a pleasant afternoon, Just Crowley,” Aziraphale said.  “Mind how you go.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Progress?  I <i>said</i> this was a slow burn...</p>
<p>Next week: not all weird reference questions are funny.  Some of them are very, very sad.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 401 (Universal and special-purposes languages)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>“I was just thinking about … well, the ways that people learn to communicate across differences.” </i><br/><i> Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Should’ve known it’d be something </i> virtuous<i>.  Couldn’t’ve been just sniggering over a dirty joke like a normal person.” </i></p>
<p>Finding a common language is an essential part of the reference interview.  Or the developing relationship.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There aren’t enough words in any language to thank my attentive beta, burnttongueontea .</p>
<p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Oh gosh, so many.  Homophobia, religious abuse, possible child abuse, possible drug abuse and incarceration—all referred to, none seen, but it is meant to be upsetting.   Some reference questions don’t have good answers.<br/>Also, spoiler warning for the ending of a thirty-year old book.  I'll identify the title in the end notes if anyone is curious.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lo siento, pero no hablo Español</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale said to the sad-eyed patron clutching a sheaf of papers.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Uno momento, y </span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>buscaré a alguien para ti</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
  <span>He paged Uriel, wishing once again that he had acquired languages more professionally useful than classical Greek, Latin, and Hebrew. It was poor customer service (and viscerally painful) to be forced to shuffle someone in need off to a different person, even though he knew that his rudimentary Spanish would only stand in the way of effective communication. Librarianship as an art was so dependent upon words, that a lack of common language could be a terrible barrier to good service.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Although shared ‘languages’ were not </span>
  <em>
    <span>always</span>
  </em>
  <span> verbal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled when he remembered the Tuvan </span>
  <em>
    <span>khoomei</span>
  </em>
  <span> singer he had hosted, oh, over a decade ago, when the university had sponsored a musical festival featuring the former Soviet republic.  Aziraphale spoke not a word of Russian nor any Turkic language, and his guest (as far as he could gather from his expressive face and hand gestures) spoke nothing else; and he had looked ahead to a weekend of painful awkwardness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fortunately, he was delighted to discover that they could bond over food, especially dairy products and rare roast beef.  While searching his pantry for the spicy condiments the throat-singer seemed to favor, Aziraphale absently hummed to himself from one of the few popular musical groups with which he had any familiarity: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is this the real life, or is this just fantasy</span>
  </em>
  <span> … He gradually became aware that his guest, head cocked, was listening intently, when he unexpectedly joined in – </span>
  <em>
    <span>icey littulsittul wetter overman</span>
  </em>
  <span> – in a gravelly bass voice. Charmed, Aziraphale belted out a slightly off-key </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scaramouche! Scaramouche!</span>
  </em>
  <span> leading to a raucous duet rendition of one of Great Britain’s most magnificent artistic exports, with lyrics only slightly more nonsensical than the original.  Aziraphale immediately scrounged up a selection of current and classic rock recordings from his neighbors, and invited the lot over for an impromptu party, including enthusiastic live accompaniment from two electric guitars, a drum set, a child’s tambourine, and the Tuvan two-stringed bowed instrument his guest called an ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>igil</span>
  </em>
  <span>.’ </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Common languages could come in many forms, indeed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That thought continued to buoy him as Crowley approached the desk, bulging briefcase in one hand, white box with the customary Saturday pastries in the other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re looking particularly rapturous at the moment, Angel,” the patron observed, as he plunked the box on the desk. “You must have known that there were going to be cheese crowns today.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, scrummy,” Aziraphale enthused.  “But I really ought to remind you that this isn’t at all necessary …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Or,” Crowley said, “You could just take them and eat.  And please, do </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>thank me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dear, I should offer a </span>
  <em>
    <span>thousand </span>
  </em>
  <span>thanks, on behalf of all the staff.  You have single-handedly transformed Saturday shifts from something to be avoided, to something to be fought over.  The schedulers despair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s me, spreading chaos,” That Demon cackled in satisfaction.  “S’not why you were standing there smiling at nothing, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was just thinking about … well, the ways that people learn to communicate across differences.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley rolled his eyes.  “Should’ve known it’d be something </span>
  <em>
    <span>virtuous</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Couldn’t’ve been just sniggering over a dirty joke like a normal person.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, but just look at us, Crowley!  Think of how we started as … not </span>
  <em>
    <span>enemies</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no, but total strangers with a, a professional </span>
  <em>
    <span>arrangement</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and now we can chat every week about books and ideas like …” Aziraphale trailed off.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Like friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he had been going to say, but he had already ruled that possibility out weeks ago, and he didn’t know how to change things.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or if he wanted to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>(Of course he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to.  But should he </span>
  <em>
    <span>permit</span>
  </em>
  <span> himself to?  And what about Crowley?  Was </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> still interested in a friendship?  How </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> one go about determining these things, anyhow?)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Earth to Angel.  Are you still with us, Angel?”  Crowley teased gently, over steepled fingers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!  My apologies.  I was just … woolgathering, my dear,” he answered, turning faintly pink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Why do you do that?” Crowley asked abruptly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do what, dear boy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dear boy</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>My dear</span>
  </em>
  <span> and all of that.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> apologize.  It’s a habit I’ve never been able to break.  I’m just … old-fashioned, I suppose.” Aziraphale tugged shamefacedly at his waistcoat.  “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.   I call everyone that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not … everyone.  Only people you </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Crowley’s chin tilted up, almost as if in challenge.  “You never called </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> that until a month ago.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did I not?”  Aziraphale’s face burned.  “I feel like I ought to apologize, but I’m not quite sure whether it is for using the endearment, or for </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> using it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That Demon’s chin remained aggressive, but the effect was ruined by a sudden quirk in the corner of his mouth.  “Do you know, I’m not really sure either?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can try to stop …” the librarian offered, but Crowley shook his head.  “Nah.  S’not so bad once I got used to it.  It makes me feel quite the … Tadfieldian?  Tadfelder?  Tadfuddled? Whatever.  Like I belong here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale didn’t reply, but he hoped that his smile was answer enough.  He wished, for neither the first nor the last time, that he could see Crowley’s eyes; but he flattered himself that he was becoming quite adept at interpreting his eyebrows, his mouth, and the tilt of his head.  Right now, he deduced that Crowley was feeling a bit flustered, so he cast about for a change of subject.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So what did you think of my most recent suggestion?  I was a bit dubious, considering the topic, but it was written years before vampire romances became a cliché, and the prose is quite gorgeous.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh …”  Crowley, it seemed, was not enamored of this topic either.  “It was … all right, I guess.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh!  Does that mean that you didn’t like it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmmph.” He flapped a hand from side to side, long fingers extended.  “The writing was pretty enough, but you know that’s not really my thing.  I like the way it mixed fantasy and science fiction, on the Moon and all, and the heroine was pretty badass, in her weird way.  Her friend, wossname, was cool as fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But?” Aziraphale pressed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You sound awfully chuffed for me </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to like the books,” Crowley complained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>am</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” He wiggled in his seat, then froze at Crowley’s startled expression.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not happy if you didn’t enjoy it, but to be completely honest, a negative response to a recommendation is a real treat for someone in my position.  It means that you’re not just passively consuming whatever I suggest, but actually reacting and thinking about it.  And it provides me with a challenge!”  He leaned forward eagerly.  “So, what did you dislike?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, then.  You asked for it.”  Crowley adjusted his dark glasses and held up one finger.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“First of all, the hero, the vampire, angel, </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, was an absolute twat.  Selfish and entitled and totally undeserving of Aerial, or whatever her name was.  Second,” he held up another finger, “Aerial, for all her badassery, was a complete </span>
  <em>
    <span>drip</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Compassion and sacrifice is all very well, but that girl had the self-respect of a flatworm. Finally,” a third finger, “after three </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>long volumes, the last bit just </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucked</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How so?  It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  She took everything she had learned and experienced and felt and was rewarded with the opportunity to save the world and live forever!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, and all it cost her was love and happiness and everything she ever wanted.”  Crowley leaned back and crossed his arms.  “She started out the series a slave, and ended up in a different kind of slavery.  One she chose, because that’s what she was used to.  Where she felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>safe</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sniffed.  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the satisfaction, the beauty, of doing something simply because it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>the right thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nope,” the other answered, popping the ‘p’.  “You can call it ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>nobility</span>
  </em>
  <span>’ all you like, but I think it’s more like ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>cowardice</span>
  </em>
  <span>’.  After all, nobody can take something from you if you’ve already given it away first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you advocate that it’s actually braver to be selfish?” Aziraphale contemplated recommending some Ayn Rand, just to be spiteful, but was terrified that That Demon might actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>enjoy</span>
  </em>
  <span> them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eh.” Crowley tilted his head, like he was giving the notion honest consideration.  “Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve been there myself.  Y’know, jumping first, before you can be pushed out.  I’m just not sure I want to read about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, you’ve certainly given me a lot to work with, for future suggestions.  And I’ll definitely keep in mind, no more </span>
  <em>
    <span>gloomy</span>
  </em>
  <span> ones.” His mind immediately began buzzing with ideas: that series, finally finished after, my goodness, almost fifteen years, would be perfect, if Crowley didn’t mind starting with a children’s book.  Oh, and what about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> one, it even had been made into a film, although the movie was quite different …</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, about that.”  Crowley ran a hand through his hair, in a gesture Aziraphale had learned to recognize as a sign of nervous agitation.  “I wonder if there’s any way to go over the limit on audio books?  I’ve got a … work thing, gonna be out of town for a while, and, umm …” He pinned an ingratiating smile on his face.  “Listening to books you’ve recommended is almost like being around my favorite Answer Angel, yeah?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear,” Aziraphale responded, arching an eyebrow.  He was terribly annoyed with himself for suddenly viewing the weeks ahead as somehow lacking in flavor.  “I might be able to override that, but I’d suggest instead you download our e-audio app.  You’ll be able to check out books anywhere, and not to have to worry about keeping track of them.  Here, let me show you…” and he restrained his expression to perfectly remote friendliness as his fingers brushed Crowley’s to demonstrate the link on the library’s mobile website.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Umm.  I think I got this.” Crowley pulled away, and Aziraphale sank back, embarrassed.  What did he think he was doing? That Demon practically </span>
  <em>
    <span>lived</span>
  </em>
  <span> on his smartphone, he didn’t need someone like </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span> to show him how to use it.  Crowley seemed to notice his mortification, since he spoke a little more softly. “Hey, you got your trivia thing tonight, right?  Are you going?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh.  Yes.  Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  He cut himself off before he asked if Crowley was planning on attending again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So … I’m not leaving until tomorrow.  Maybe I could check with you there, right?  I mean, if I have any problems with the app?”  Then Crowley also seemed to shrink a little.  “Oh, I shouldn’t bother you on your time off.  Don’t mean to overstep.  Never mind.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale considered sacrifice and selfishness.  What it meant to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>brave</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “Actually, I …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just then he realized that a pair of patrons were standing nearby, obviously waiting for his help.  As he made eye contact, the two young women—practically children, really, Aziraphale wondered if he should send them over to Newton’s department—approached the desk together, but stood silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How may I assist you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of them looked nervously at Crowley, but still said nothing.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “Crowley, if you might afford these ladies some privacy?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That Demon gave them a long look over his dark glasses and sighed heavily.  But he did haul himself out of the chair and sauntered back towards the furthest wall, perusing the books on the shelves with patent disinterest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale smiled in welcome.  “Yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The taller woman, auburn hair pulled back in a severe curls, cleared her throat.  “We were wondering if you had any books on …” her voice dropped practically to a whisper.  “…demons.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, dear</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the librarian’s first thought, dismayed at yet more sheltered teenagers seeking supernatural titillation.  Then he noticed how the shorter, blonder patron’s hand seemed to unconsciously seek out and entwine with her companion’s, and his heart clenched for another reason entirely.  He tried to match their quiet tone.  “Possibly, although if you could be more specific as to what you are desiring?  Demons in the Jewish and Christian scriptures, or how they appear in other faiths?  History of occult practices?  Or…” he trailed off with an encouraging note.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first woman spoke again.  “We’re looking for a list of demon names, mostly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah.  Are you perhaps writing a story, and wish to name a character?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, that’s…” the redhead said, but the smaller woman squeezed her hand and interrupted.  “No.  We’re trying to identify one.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Harry!” the first woman hissed.  “That’s none of his business!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not doing anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Nan,” the blonde—Harry—replied.  “We’re looking for help.  And we won’t get it by lying to this nice man.”  She addressed Aziraphale.  “It’s our little boy.  Well, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ours</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Thad is really my older sister’s boy, but she’s … not able to take care of him right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale had lived in that region nearly his entire life and understood what was not being said.  Tadfield might be a lovely little town, but it was not immune from the ills that plagued larger cities.  Or rural locales.  Or anyplace, really, where humans were human. “I see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah.”  Her eyes thanked him for not inquiring further.  “So, well, when his mama … </span>
  <em>
    <span>went away</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Thad was only a tiny thing, we thought he’d be fine, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but now he’s old enough to ask questions, and … he don’t?  He hardly talks at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just sulks and snaps all the time.  He don’t want to answer to his name no more, he says </span>
  <em>
    <span>call me Warlock</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like we’re gonna use a heathen name like that, and my mama says he’s gotten himself possessed of a demon, but Nan says that she only says that ‘cause the boy tol’ her she </span>
  <em>
    <span>smells like poo</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” interrupted Nan.  “Nasty old-lady stink.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nan!  ‘Tain’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>fault!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She calls Thad </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hellspawn</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  And </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anti-Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>! And I don’t know what-all! That’s a fine way for a Christian woman to talk about her own grandson!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry turned back to Aziraphale.  “But anyways, I miss our sweet boy, and if </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘tis</span>
  </em>
  <span> a demon, mama says we should take him to the pastor, but I don’t know about Brother Francis…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He talks a good game about </span>
  <em>
    <span>loving all God’s creatures</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Nan said bitterly.  “But he goes on a bit too much about the Hellfire waiting for certain flavors of ‘em, if you know what I mean and I think you do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale noted the way the two clutched at each other for support and thought that he did as well.  “So.  You thought that you might, er, take matters into your own hands?  Or at least do the research?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry nodded.  “That’s right.  We were thinking that if we had some names, we might, y’know, figure out which demon was possessing our poor Tadpole, and …” she trailed off.  “I don’t know.  Do something about it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.”  Aziraphale considered very carefully for a moment.  “I suppose that I should remind you that identifying a demon’s name will not be … easy.  Scripture tells us that the Devil is </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Father of Lies</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and I would think that any of his, er, subordinates would try to trick you into harming the child further.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Harry drooped.  Nan glared at him.  “That’s our lookout.  Are you going to find us a book or not?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course I will help you.  That </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> my job, after all.  I’m just trying to think of the best … Ah.”  Aziraphale had a sudden inspiration.  “But Scripture also tells us that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love casts out fear</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so I am quite sure that loving the boy …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course we love him!” Harry cried, a bit too loudly for the Reference section. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Loving him </span>
  <em>
    <span>as you do</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I was going to say, is the one thing no demon would be able to withstand.   Let me look through our section on demons and demonology and so forth, and see if I can find you something about how they try to tempt humans to despair.  But meanwhile, I’d like to show you both our Parenting section, that’s in the Children’s Room, it has plenty of materials on, um, different stages in a child’s life, and how to help them work through anger and grief in an age-appropriate way. Both from the perspective of …” </span>
  <em>
    <span>science</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he was going to say, but quickly switched to “people who have expertise in this sort of thing, and also from a more, ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>spiritual </span>
  </em>
  <span>approach.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See, Nan, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>told</span>
  </em>
  <span> you the library could help us,” Harry told her companion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And … if you wouldn’t consider it too forward …” Aziraphale went on, “I wish you would permit me to give you the contact information of an … acquaintance of mine, who has some … experience with combat against the Powers of Darkness, as it were.  I’m sure if you gave her my name, and explained your problem, she’d be delighted to give you some assistance.”  He picked up his phone, and quickly scrolled through his contacts to find Sister Mary’s number. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>She</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  We don’t hold no truck with female pastors …” Nan said dubiously.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, not at all.  Sister Mary is a nun,” Aziraphale said quickly.  “Like in </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Sound of Music</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, that should be all right, then.  Coming, Nan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale turned around the sign on his desk to read </span>
  <em>
    <span>SO SORRY, WE’LL BE BACK IN A JIFFY! </span>
  </em>
  <span>(Which he personally thought had just the right informal, friendly touch, although all the rest of the Reference Staff flat-out refused to use it.)  As he led them into the hallway leading towards the Children’s Department, Harry leaned over to him and whispered loudly, “Thank you </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much.  You’ve been so helpful and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> that the library would have someone who understood how things are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale returned to the desk twenty minutes later, to find Crowley ensconced there, scrolling through his phone, as if he had never left.  As the librarian sat back down, he scrubbed his hands briefly through his white-blond curls before settling them on the keyboard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley said quietly, “You shouldn’t’ve encouraged their delusions, Aziraphale.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffed out a breath and tried not to be bothered by the fact that Crowley had failed to call him </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.  The privacy of the patron is a sacred trust.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not when children are involved.  You can’t endanger </span>
  <em>
    <span>kids</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  There was an urgent tension in Crowley’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I was not hired to challenge anyone’s worldview, Crowley, nor am I even remotely qualified for the position,” Aziraphale answered bitterly. “I am neither priest, social worker, nor therapist.  It is my responsibility to answer the question </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  If it is possible to discern, the question actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>meant</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  What else would you have me do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No child should have to believe that the people who are supposed to … supposed to care for him think that he’s something </span>
  <em>
    <span>evil</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Unholy.”  The painful certainty behind those words hurt even more than the recent interaction.  “You could still call Child Protective Services.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And say </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Aziraphale snapped.  “That a child, whose mother is probably in rehab or jail, is in the charge of caretakers who are scarcely more than children themselves?  That I don’t care for their religious beliefs, which are almost certainly shared by a substantial number of my other patrons, and possibly by the CPS caseworker? Or perhaps I should </span>
  <em>
    <span>out</span>
  </em>
  <span> the couple, who for all their faults undoubtedly love this child and are struggling to do their best, and make them outcast from their community and support, and throw the boy into an overstressed and underfunded foster care agency?”  He hunched in on himself.  “Do you think that this is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>first</span>
  </em>
  <span> time I’ve had to field a question like that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Shouldn’t you be better prepared, then?”  Crowley’s expression, always opaque, was more unreadable than usual.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I already overstepped boundaries more than I should have by passing on that phone number.  But Sister Mary Hodges is the closest I know to the necessary combination of spiritual advisor and child advocate; and unlike me, she has the legal authority to actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>something.  She can speak their language, and will do her damndest, if you’ll pardon the expression, for the boy.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>If</span>
  </em>
  <span> I convinced them to reach out to her.  And even as fond as she is of chattering, she’ll never tell me one way or the other.  And she shouldn’t.”  He fiddled with the pens on his desk.  “That’s the worst thing about working at a Reference Desk, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The morally difficult questions?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, those, too.”  Aziraphale sighed.  “I was thinking, though, of the way every question is a like a little story, as it were. But you rarely know how the story actually began; and you almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> find out how it finishes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hmm.  Mebbe.  But then again, it’s just as well, Angel.”  Aziraphale squashed down his irrational sense of relief at hearing the nickname return.  Crowley continued.  “After all, you know that every story, I mean every </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> story, ends badly.  Everybody dies, The End.”  His mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin.  “This way, you get to finish the story however you like.  Tell yourself that </span>
  <em>
    <span>they all live happily ever after</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  It might actually even be true.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do like happy endings,” Aziraphale sighed.  He looked at his hands, twisting the gold signet ring he wore on his pinky finger.  “Which reminds me of what you asked earlier.  I hope that I shall see you tonight at The Fifth Horseman.”  He raised his chin to meet Crowley’s eyes (or at least where he assumed those eyes would be).  “If you would be so kind, I might even presume to ask you again for a lift home, afterwards.  We could even go for that cup of coffee, if … if you would like to, I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Umm.  Sure.  Yeah.  Right.”  Crowley looked a little stunned, to be honest.  “Anywhere you want to go.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Look at Aziraphale, being all brave and stuff!</p>
<p>The books that he and Crowley are discussing at the beginning are THE DARKANGEL TRILOGY by Meredith Ann Pierce.  I personally adore them, but the conclusion is extremely controversial.</p>
<p>Next week: Crowley is away, so someone else has to step up to be That Patron.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 611 (Gross anatomy)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i>It was all rather new to Aziraphale, but </i> exciting<i>, and so very very fragile-feeling that he was careful not to think about it all, lest he somehow shatter the whole thing. </i><br/><i> He did not, as it happened, have much time to think about it. </i></p>
<p>Aziraphale discovers the wonders of texting. Marjorie Potts has a few questions.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, this chapter contains a number of text conversations.  I didn't want to use the pretty workskins, because the texts wouldn't look anything like so nice and bubbled on Aziraphale's flip phone, and also I couldn't be bothered. <br/> But all the nifty formatting I <i>did</i> put in was stripped away by AO3, so ....  If it isn't clear what's going on, let me know in the comments and I'll muck about with it some more.</p>
<p>Once again, <i>mil gracias</i>&lt; to my brilliant beta, burnttongueontea .  Extra thanks to VaguelyGenius for the perfect bit of Anathema snark.</p>
<p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Overstepping boundaries, repeated vulgarities, in English and Spanglish.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale didn’t <em>miss</em> Crowley while he was away on business. Not in the slightest.</p>
<p>Crowley <em>had</em> been at the trivia contest Saturday night (at which the Library team had triumphed over the Fatty Spliffers again, boding poorly for their upcoming special budget request before the Board), and Crowley <em>had</em> offered Aziraphale a ride home (provoking an excited if painfully-sharp elbow jab from Anathema, and an incredulous snigger from Bee, who was present that evening to support their whatever-they-were-to-each-other Dagon), and Aziraphale <em>had</em> invited him out to his favorite late-night café (although he had opted for a cocoa himself, it was a bit too late for coffee, Aziraphale had enough difficulty sleeping as it was). And Crowley had been as perfectly charming a companion as he had hoped, witty and acerbic and more stimulating, frankly, than any amount of caffeine would have been.</p>
<p>And if during the course of several cups of cocoa for the one and seemingly bottomless espresso for the other, and an extended argument about the Linnaean classification of sea mammals (Crowley had insisted that genetics were the only proper determinants, but Aziraphale thought that cladistic analysis should be given more weight), Aziraphale had happened to enter his number into the other’s smartphone, <em>just in case you need to text me for an emergency book recommendation</em>, well, he was certain that even That Demon wouldn’t draw any incorrect inferences from the familiarity.</p>
<p>He’d probably delete it from his contacts as soon as he dropped Aziraphale off.</p>
<p>An assumption which explains why Aziraphale was astonished but delighted to receive a text as soon as the following Monday morning:</p>
<p>
  <strong>Y r u telling me 2 rd kids bks</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I am not “telling” you to read anything, my dear.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I merely thought that this was a series you might enjoy. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And yes, the first book was written for children, but is not at all childish. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It sets up the world and characters for later books,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>which explore themes I do believe that you would find intriguing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Such as overcoming nigh-insurmountable setbacks and defying implacable deities. </em>
</p>
<p><em>And they *are* quite funny</em>.</p>
<p>
  <strong>Angel do u kno how TEXT wrks</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>S not 4 full sentences</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>or speling</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>or pnctuation</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>or w ever tf nigh-insurmountable s</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>I have my standards, dear boy</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>F crse u do</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>O</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Btw</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>I</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>m not a dear boy</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>not 2day</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Ah. My apologies. Thank you for letting me know.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Would you care to share your current pronouns, then?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>n p</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>She / her</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Quite right.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Well then, dear girl, I do hope that you’ll give Gen a chance. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I think he’s a character you will grow to love.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>K</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>trust u</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Aziraphale was sufficiently undone by the last two words that he needed to close both his flip phone and his eyes. He knew that Crowley was referring to more than his book suggestions.</p>
<p>Over cocoa (and a slice of a transcendent lemon meringue pie), Aziraphale had delicately and apologetically brought up the topic of mistaken gender assumptions, but Crowley hadn’t seemed the slightest bit receptive. Yet, after being driven back to his home, and just as he had been about to unbuckle the seatbelt, Crowley—staring fixedly out the front windshield—had allowed that he ‘<em>defaulted</em>’ to a male identity, but <em>mostly didn’t care</em>; on occasion, however, being male <em>simply doesn’t fit, Angel, I mean, feels absolutely Not That</em>, and would viscerally <em>know</em> their gender to be female, or sometimes no gender at all.</p>
<p>To which confession Aziraphale could say nothing but thank Crowley for honoring him with such a confidence, and request that he be informed when he inadvertently misgendered. He once again assumed that Crowley would regret his honesty, and nothing more would ever be said on the topic.</p>
<p>He was not at all prepared to be so thoroughly mistaken.</p>
<p>Fortunately, he was drawn out of his somewhat maudlin reflections by the sound of Anathema veritably <em>bouncing</em> into his office. “Boss! <em>Boss</em>! You’ll never believe what you just missed at the desk!”</p>
<p>He raised his eyebrows in enquiry. “Someone told Uriel that <em>I pay your salary</em>, and she answered with precisely how much of her salary each individual ratepayer contributes, and offered a refund?”</p>
<p>“No, but I can totally see her doing that, thanks for the fantasy, Aziraphale,” Anathema grinned. “But this was almost as good. We had a –GRY spotting! An actual <em>–GRY question</em>, live in the wild!”</p>
<p>“My goodness, it’s been, what, nearly ten years?” Aziraphale sat up even straighter. “And they used to be so frequent on the ground, too. Well, it’s good to know the legendary monsters never <em>quite</em> die out.” He leaned forward. “Do tell me all. Was it the classic formulation?”</p>
<p>“Yep: ‘<em>What’s another word besides </em>angry<em> and </em>hungry<em> that ends in -</em>gry?’ And he didn’t like at all the prepped sheet with all the answers. ‘<em>No, it’s a </em>common<em> word</em>!’” Anathema shook her head. “Uriel was great, though. Explained about the trick question. Showed him the precise wording. Even underlined the three words.”</p>
<p>“But he didn’t believe her,” Aziraphale said sadly.</p>
<p>“But he didn’t believe her,” she echoed.</p>
<p>“And now he’s angry at the Library, for concealing this secret knowledge that will permit him to win a drunken bet.” He sighed, then clapped his hands once. “Well, I hope I still have that coupon for the free oil change hanging about. Uriel definitely earned it.”</p>
<p>Over the next few weeks, Crowley continued to text Aziraphale: mostly brief little comments on books (‘<strong>s this sposed 2 b story or omnishambles?</strong>’); menu items from the restaurants he was patronizing (‘<strong>u kno ive never eaten oyster?</strong>’); observations on other libraries that he happened to visit (‘<strong>m cheating on u but this place s library of alexandria</strong>’) and the like. And Aziraphale would text him back with his own short quips—‘<em>Yes</em>’; ‘<em>Oh, you really must my dear, they’re remarkable</em>’; ‘<em>Before or after it burned down?</em>’—and it was all rather new to him, but <em>exciting</em>, and so very very fragile-feeling that he was careful not to think about it all, lest he somehow shatter the whole thing.</p>
<p>He did not, as it happened, have much time to think about it.</p>
<p>The Tadfield Public Library registered many new patrons over the following month, but only one chose to breeze into the Reference Department wearing an exquisite vintage violet Burberry trench coat atop what amounted to a peach negligee, and plop herself down in what Aziraphale had come to consider That Demon’s chair.</p>
<p>“Hullo, ducks!” Marjorie Potts finger-waved to him and Uriel, who happened to be sharing the shift. “Where’s your future sweetheart, Azi?”</p>
<p>He winced, then smoothed his features to appropriate customer-service affability. “Good afternoon, Ms Potts—”</p>
<p>“Oh, do call me Marjorie!”</p>
<p>“Thank you, Marjorie, and you may call me Aziraphale,” slightly stressing the full name. He provided what he hoped came off as a cheeky grin. “Alas, I have no sweetheart, future or otherwise; all my devotion is for our patrons and the wider community.”</p>
<p>“That’s odd,” Uriel piped up. “Anathema thinks that—”</p>
<p>“Ms Device is among my dearest friends,” he interrupted, then rearranged his face again. “She sometimes unites that fondness with her imagination and lets it run away with her. At any rate, surely the desk here is no place for idle gossip.” Oh dear. He sounded like the worst sort of prig, now, and possibly he had hurt Uriel (Spoiler: Uriel was not offended in the slightest), but the last thing he wanted was to encourage Not!Tracy Madam to think that there was even a hint of fact behind her romantic fancies.</p>
<p>“If you say so, lovey,” Marjorie shrugged, then somewhat alarmed him until he realized that her contorted face was meant as an exaggerated wink. “Your Gabriel, Assistant Director Herald that is, said that I might have the run of the place, chat with the staff, look around at the rooms, all the better to create an ‘atmosphere of authenticity.’ It won’t bother either of you if I just sit here and observe you interacting with your customers, will it?”</p>
<p>It bothered Aziraphale a great deal, actually, but he could hardly say so. Not considering the precedent he had allowed to be set with Crowley, after all, and <em>how </em>had he been tempted into permitting that arrangement to come about in the first place, anyways? He mentally filed that under the “Think About This Later Or Better Still Never” label. “Of course not, so long as you recognize that the privacy of our patrons is absolute, my dear madame.”</p>
<p>She twinkled at him, and he heroically suppressed a sigh.</p>
<p>After that, Marjorie Potts became very much a fixture of the Library, in a manner that Crowley had never quite managed. Every member of the staff knew exactly who she claimed <em>not</em> to be, and every detail of what she may-or-may-not-have-been contributing to the Summer Reading Program, from Adam Young the page (who immediately classified her as Someone My Mum Would Go Gaga Over And Therefore Of No Possible Interest) to the Director (who knew everything, who <em>always</em> knew everything, but for her own ineffable reasons never provably intervened in anything). Yet as much as they might gossip in the breakroom, not a one of them ever let a word slip to the public, not even to their family or friends, and always behaved towards Marjorie Potts just as they behaved towards everyone else—that is, as if they were the most important and valued person who ever walked through the library doors.</p>
<p>With one exception, that is. For some reason, the security guard Shadwell had taken one look at Marjorie Potts, and declared her not only a risk to library security, but to the safety of all that was good and decent in civilization, and took to staring at her fixedly, muttering epithets that Aziraphale resignedly decided not to overhear, every time she came into the building. He would have taken action, of course, since the safety and comfort of patrons was his responsibility; but Ms Potts, leaning over and patting his hand, had requested that he “leave the dear man be, this is surely the most fun he’s had in years,” and proceeded to flutter and bat her lashes and make kissy faces at Shadwell whenever he made eye contact, with the unvarying result of much sputtering and strangled noises before the Sergeant’s inevitable retreat.</p>
<p>As for the rest of the town… well, it was perfectly obvious to everyone that Marjorie Potts was definitely Someone, even though nobody was quite sure precisely Who. It wasn’t as if the good people of Tadfield were unfamiliar with celebrities in their midst. There was the personal assistant to that scandal-plagued national politician, who after eight years of putting out fires, briefly retired to a restorative period ringing up purchases at the dollar store (of all places), a job she chose precisely because “I can turn off my brain and make people mildly happy for eight hours a day.” (Eventually she turned her brain back on, re-entered politics, and ignited a few interesting scandals of her own, but that’s another story.) And then there was the middle daughter of that television-famous family—notorious mostly for whelping twenty unfortunate offspring—who escaped to waitress at Luby’s café, and whose demanding customers were a positive vacation after cooking and cleaning and sewing and serving a dozen younger siblings.</p>
<p>But those well-known residents were characterized mostly by their shared desire to become blessedly <em>un</em>known. Marjorie Potts was an entirely different kettle of prize-winning rainbow-colored singing and dancing tropical fish. She was never demanding, nor obnoxious, nor too good for her company; but she was loud, she was garish, she trailed outré hats and scarves and clouds of perfume, and she took up twice the space and three times the oxygen of any other person. Whether she was flirting with a police officer, quizzing a fishmonger, or attending a different church (or synagogue, or temple) every weekend, Marjorie Potts drew all eyes, all ears, and all sorts of fascinated speculation.</p>
<p>Much of this centered around the hours she spent at the public library. She didn’t seem to be much interested in the books or movies or other materials on offer; but she was forever taking measurements of walls and furniture, and snapping pictures of the layout and the staff. To Aziraphale’s dismay, Gabriel had indeed given her free reign of the building; and one never knew when she would pop up in Tech Services, or the breakroom, or even in the bookdrop (one distraught patron reported that as she went through the drive-through to return her materials, a scarlet-manicured hand reached through the slot to receive them), or—most egregious—in Aziraphale’s own office sanctum.</p>
<p>“Goodness gracious, lovey, don’t you have enough books out there, that you have to pile them on every possible surface in here as well?” she asked, taking more pictures of his desk, his shelves, and his floor.</p>
<p>“These are materials that need my individual attention,” he sighed, “for—why are you taking pictures of me?”</p>
<p>“Ah, well, my, that is, <em>Tracy Madam</em>’s cover artist agreed to make a little something for this project, isn’t that a treat? So she’ll need a picture of you, and darling Anathema, and maybe a few others. And just a bit more info from you, pet, your height?”</p>
<p>“Five ten, I think,” Aziraphale said. “But I don’t—”</p>
<p>“That’s all right, ducks, I do,” Marjorie Potts said cheerfully. “Weight?”</p>
<p>“Now see here…”</p>
<p>“You’re right, it doesn’t matter, I’ll be fudging things a bit, same as the wardrobe,” she said, looking from his sensible brogues to his bow tie with some disfavor. “I’ll leave it as ‘<em>restrained, subdued, and tastefully old-fashioned</em>’, and readers can dream of whatever they like best. Any distinguishing characteristics?” she went on briskly.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon?”</p>
<p>“<em>You</em> know, tattoos, birthmarks, old dueling scars?”</p>
<p>“Ah. Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>“Well, we can put one in if it’s necessary,” she tsked. “And your cock?”</p>
<p>“My <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>“Your cock, love. Your prick. Penis. Manhood. Whatever you want to call it. How would you describe it? Thick? Long? Hung like a Hellhound?” Marjorie Potts sounded appallingly blasé about the whole thing. “If it’s easier, you can just drop trou and I’ll take a quick reference photo.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely <em>not</em>!” Aziraphale could not decide between being scandalized or amused. He decided upon bureaucratic and firm. “I am quite certain that our arrangement specified that this was going to be a, er, <em>family-friendly</em> novella. No allusions of any sort to sexual activities, let alone explicit descriptions thereof.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but …” she genuinely pouted, “that’s not La Madame’s usual style, you know. Are you sure that you wouldn’t rather have the full romance novel treatment?” She winked at him. “I guarantee you’ll come off well.”</p>
<p>After a period of mental calming exercises (which culminated with a soothing lavender and chamomile tisane), Aziraphale chose to view the entire exchange as <em>quite amusing, really, when you thought about it</em>. He had pulled out his flip phone to begin the process of texting an account to Crowley, when he caught himself. What was he <em>doing</em>? They were hardly on those sort of terms! Even if he <em>had</em> hesitantly, tentatively, made overtures of friendship, even if the other <em>seemed</em> receptive in his usual amiable-if-sarcastic way, their conversations had still been mostly on the level of chit-chat. It would have been not at all the thing to suddenly interject such … <em>salacious ribaldry</em>.</p>
<p>Besides, he’d have to explain about Marjorie Potts, and Tracy Madam, and the Summer Reading Program, and he wasn’t sure that his texting skills were up to it. He looked over his most recent interaction with Crowley, from a few days earlier:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>U &amp; witch girl r rly tight yeah</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Yes, we are. Anathema’s doing, really.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>She can be quite ferocious when she decides that someone is her friend.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Consider yourself warned.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Not gonna b a problem</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>That’s what young Newton thought.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Although I confess it is intriguing to watch</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>how very cautiously dear Anathema has been navigating that relationship.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Wot</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Huh</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>… </strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t ‘dot dot dot’ me, you fiend.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>I ll … u if i wanna</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>So</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>She s rly serious about wossface</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Newton?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Rather.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Shit</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, don’t be such a curmudgeon.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I think it is all rather lovely.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But it has nothing to do with me, after all.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Not?</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Absolutely not.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Except …</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Now who s</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>dot dot dot ing</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>An ellipsis is a valid punctuation mark to express uncertainty.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And I confess, I am … uncertain about what this new romance</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>will mean for my friendship with Anathema.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>When I am no longer her chief confidant, that is.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>My own fault, I suppose.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But I do feel a little lonely just thinking of it.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>jk,ckjogisdlrienfkdk</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Oh, is that what is called a ‘keyboard bash’?</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Smash angel</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>SMASH</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>How can some1 so clever be so stoopid</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Like u won t always</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>...</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Never mind don t matter</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>just tell the witch wht u thinking</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>she ll set u strait</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>so 2 spk</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>You’re correct. I should do that.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Thank you.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>DON T</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>THANK</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>ME</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>If you insist.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I look forward to your return, my dear.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>…</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>yeah</strong>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>All right, it wasn’t <em>all</em> inconsequential chatter.</p>
<p>Aziraphale was, to be honest, rather taken aback at how freely he had confessed his fears and hopes over such an impersonal medium. Or perhaps that was actually the reason? He had always been more comfortable with the distance of the printed word. Had he somehow transferred that permissive remoteness to this form of textual communication? Had he, oh heavens, <em>presumed</em> upon Crowley’s generosity?</p>
<p>Aziraphale burned with embarrassment. He would have to be more careful when That Demon eventually returned to library.</p>
<p>But nonetheless, the advice was still quite sound. He went to find Anathema.</p>
<p>He tracked her down (not surprisingly) to her office, listening to a webinar on a genealogical application, but she was glad to pause the recording and take off her headphones as he regaled her with Marjorie Pott’s breezy interrogation.</p>
<p>Anathema laughed, but then shook her head ruefully. “You’re far too polite. When she barged in here asking about my measurements, I called her a <em>pinche metiche</em> and threw her the hell out of my office.” She leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “But you’ll never guess the follow up.”</p>
<p>“She didn’t tattle on you to Gabriel, did she?” he asked, pre-emptively bristling.</p>
<p>“Ugh, no, like he’d sully himself with such a gross matter.” She wrinkled her nose. “Nope, not half an hour later, but who should pop in but good old <em>Sarge</em>. Conducting a quick ‘<em>security survey</em>’, or so he says.”</p>
<p>“Oh, dear. Poor Shadwell,” Aziraphale grinned and leaned back against the door.</p>
<p>“I know, right?” She snickered. “So I confirm my name, my employee ID, my phone number. Then he glances down, all casual-like, and asks, ‘<em>So, then, how many nipples have ye got?</em>’”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>no</em>!” he put fingers over his mouth, equal parts amused and horrified. “I cannot believe that Ms Potts suborned him to ask <em>that</em>!”</p>
<p>“Too be fair, I don’t think she was that specific,” Anathema said. “But I guess she didn’t realize that Sarge has his own special … <em>obsessions</em>. Anyways, I looked him dead in the eye and said ‘<em>Oodles of nipples, wanna see?</em>’ and made like I was going to unbutton my top, and he got this expression like he was scared I was a weapon that was about to explosively backfire in his face, so I told him to never ask anything like that again if he didn’t want me to report him to HR as the <em>viejo verde</em> he was, and he skedaddled like I tossed firecrackers at his feet.” She gave her satisfied-cat smile again. “A fun morning.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale, however, was caught on something else. “You know I don’t understand a word of your, er, <em>cant</em>, my dear girl, but <em>viejo verde</em>? A … an <em>elderly green</em>? That doesn’t sound too bad.”</p>
<p>“Not <em>too</em> bad, no, but not … <em>nice</em>, either.” She didn’t bother to translate, of course.</p>
<p>He sighed. “No, of course not. It is never anything nice.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t know …” Anathema twirled an escaped lock of hair thoughtfully around one finger. “I mean … I could say of your Demon that ‘<em>muy chulo ese culo</em>’ and that is both true and <em>very</em> nice,” she smirked.</p>
<p>“He is not <em>my</em> Demon, and I don’t want to know what that means, do I?”</p>
<p>“Probably not,” Anathema agreed. “Oh, and he’s back in Tadfield, did you know?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale did not say anything. The peculiar hollow feeling in his chest swallowed every word that he tried to dredge up.</p>
<p>Anathema’s eyebrows snapped together, as she peered at him sharply. “Newt told me he ran into Crowley at the Old Airbase last night,” she said slowly, as if choosing her words carefully. “It’s not Newt’s usual place to stop for a drink, but he was in a bit of a mood over … well, you probably saw the charred carpet in the Teen Room. Anyways, Newt says that the Demon was perfectly civil, bought them both a round, sat and made sympathetic noises while my poor boy cried on his shoulder. He’s a surprisingly good listener, Newt says.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think that is surprising at all,” Aziraphale huffed.</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay.” She stared at him again. “Anyways, <em>according to Newt</em>,” she emphasized, “Crowley managed to turn the subject until Newt was talking about me, about <em>us</em>, saying all sorts of stuff, including things that he hasn’t said <em>to </em>me, not yet, but he’d better soon, if he doesn’t want to be turned into a different kind of newt, if you know what I mean. It was … nice, he said. Made him feel a whole lot better.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Aziraphale cast about for something to say. “Oh. Well. That’s good, I suppose. I expect that we should both get back to work, though.”</p>
<p>He shuffled back to his own office, feeling Anathema’s suspicious eyes on him the whole time. Surely there was a good reason that Crowley hadn’t mentioned to him that he was back in town. Surely there was no reason at all that Crowley <em>should</em> have mentioned it. Why would he? They weren’t <em>friends</em>. Not really. Just <em>friendly</em>. A librarian and a patron. That was all.</p>
<p>So it was completely unreasonable to feel so breathless when his telephonic device suddenly emitted the chipper knocking sound that indicated that he had received a text. He snatched it up quickly to read:</p>
<p>
  <strong>Hiya angel</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Got back last nite</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Catch up over coffee latr?</strong>
</p>
<p>His fingers almost tangled themselves up in his haste to peck out an affirmative answer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next week: Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship takes a significant step forward.</p>
<p>Everything is going to be wonderful and nothing can possibly go pear-shaped, correct?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 929.4 (Names and naming conventions)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p><i> Suddenly things weren’t awkward at all, this was </i> Just Crowley<i>, and everything was going to be fine.  </i></p><p>Aziraphale and Crowley grow closer, and everything is perfectly lovely.  Until Aziraphale finds out what Crowley does for a living, in the most awkward possible way.<br/></p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I apologize for this chapter being so beastly long.  I kept adding more fluff in an effort to stave off the inevitable.</p><p>So Much Gratitude to Dashicra1, who stepped up for an emergency beta!</p><p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Vulgar language.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Aziraphale thought that someone must have stopped time itself, considering how agonizingly slowly the hands on his pocketwatch moved.</p><p>Somehow he managed to perform his tasks for the day (ordering the latest “beach reading” releases in time for the summer, checking for new travel guides to popular vacation spots, and anchoring the last shift on the Reference Desk) with only a brief break to look up the online menu for the café which he had suggested to Crowley. It was only after ushering out the last straggling patrons (which included patiently explaining to Jean Claude that no, the Library was <em>not</em> deliberately hiding the books on British Columbia, and yes, they have <em>always</em> been shelved in the section on <em>North</em> America, not South America) and locking the doors to the building, that the implications of the whole evening struck him.</p><p>He had asked Crowley to meet him after work. At a specific <em>venue</em>. For <em>dinner</em>.</p><p>Did this count as a <em>date</em>?</p><p>More important, did <em>Crowley</em> think it counted as a date?</p><p>Most crucial, did Aziraphale <em>want </em>him to think that?</p><p>He didn’t know.</p><p>Oh dear. Oh <em>dear</em>. Aziraphale anxiously tugged on his waistcoat, straightened his tie, and smoothed a hand across his white-blond curls. Well, there was nothing for it. There was simply no time to sort out his own complicated emotions in the short walk ahead of him; and as far as Crowley was concerned, it’s not like he could just come out and <em>ask</em> what the other was thinking, could he? No, he would simply have to play it by ear, as the saying went. That was the problem with dealing with people in real life; one was never prepared with a script ahead of time, and other people simply refused to say the lines that he expected. He lifted his chin, twisted the family signet ring on his right hand, and prepared to cross the street …</p><p>… and nearly jumped out of his skin as a raucous car horn blared right.</p><p>“C’mon, Angel, get in the car!” Crowley called, leaning out of the passenger window and waving both arms.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale hissed. This sort of adolescent behavior was simply <em>not on</em> in the staid streets of Tadfield.</p><p>“Trying to keep <em>you</em> out of trouble!” Crowley snapped back. “Do you always wander into traffic with your head in the clouds, or is this ambition to become road pizza a new one?”</p><p>Aziraphale only hesitated a moment before opening the door and clambering into the passenger seat. “I will have you know,” he said, bucking his seatbelt, “that it is perfectly ridiculous to endanger others and waste fuel to drive less than a mile.”</p><p>“But this way,” Crowley countered, “you get to skip the meaningless pleasantries like <em>Hullo Crowley how’ve you been it’s good to see you</em> and go right for the important things, like berating me. ‘Sides, if you’re gonna arrive somewhere, arrive in style.”</p><p>Aziraphale couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face. “Hello, my dear. It truly <em>is</em> good to see you, and how <em>have</em> you been? I can tell you that you have been missed, for one thing.”</p><p>“<em>Gnnnghk</em>,” That Demon responded. “Completely <em>unfair</em>, Angel. Undercuts any and all snark before I can even get it ready.”</p><p>“I apologize, my dear. I have missed your sarcasm most of all. Shall I start over with an insult?” Crowley’s silent but perfectly comprehensible response allowed Aziraphale to riposte, “Oh, good heavens, hands on the <em>wheel</em>, eyes on the <em>road</em>, thank you for making it easy for me!”</p><p>And suddenly things weren’t awkward at all, this was <em>Just Crowley</em>, and everything was going to be fine.</p><p>Dinner was lovely (the café specialized in savory crepes, and Aziraphale had cheese and mushroom and half of Crowley’s onion and watercress, and the apple-plum dessert crepes were to die for), and the conversation lovelier (Crowley goaded Aziraphale into describing the antics of young patrons playing ‘shock the reference librarian’ and the tactics used to thwart them, such as straightforwardly asking them to repeat, spell, and explain the context of the various obscenities for which they requested definitions), and the late sunset spilling through the window over Crowley’s face and hair the loveliest of all (Crowley quite unfairly used Aziraphale’s distraction to wave his own credit card at their server).</p><p>“Lift home?” Crowley asked as the pair strolled the half-block back to the Bentley. “Or perhaps a drink or two? Tomorrow’s Friday, and you don’t work, do you?”</p><p>“Just because I don’t go into the Library doesn’t mean I don’t have work to do,” Aziraphale chided. without heat. It was a beautiful early summer evening and he felt warm, satiated, and utterly content. “There’s an old family herbarium I’m restoring for a client, fiddly work but terribly fascinating. I don’t suppose …” he hesitated.</p><p>Crowley looked an enquiry.</p><p>“Wouldyoucaretostopinandsee?” Aziraphale blushed slightly, and slowed down. “You’ve mentioned an interest in plant lore before, and I <em>think</em> that was on your own account, and not for your … whatever it is that you do. I mean, you’ve just returned from your travels, you probably have tasks that demand your attention, but I’ve got a bottle or two of a rather pleasant Beaujolais nouveau you might enjoy, and, oh, perhaps some other time …”</p><p>“Angel,” Crowley stopped him with a light touch to his upper arm. “I’d like that. Thanks.”</p><p>After unlocking the door, Aziraphale bustled in to turn on the lamps. He arranged a Victorian paisley scarf (usually draped over the tables of books he couldn’t be arsed to put away properly—he wasn’t paid to shelve at home—in order to keep the dust off) atop each one in order to mute the glare. He gave Crowley a shy smile. “Is this all right for your eyes, my dear?”</p><p>“Yeah. But you really didn’t need to… I mean, I’m used to …”</p><p>“Nonsense! I shan’t have you, <em>anyone</em>, uncomfortable in my home if I can possibly prevent it.” He watched That Demon wander around the erstwhile bookshop, idly perusing the shelves, the framed pictures, the oddments under glass domes, all the clutter and detritus that he himself had become too accustomed to actually <em>see</em>. It was a … <em>peculiar</em> feeling, to have someone else in this space; but his face grew warm as he realized how agreeable it was. “Do have a seat.” He waved vaguely at the grouping of shabby sofa and armchairs where he had spent so many nights happily reading, as he hurried off to grab a pair of wine glasses and a bottle or two.</p><p>When he returned, he found Crowley—oh, dear, he couldn’t say <em>sitting</em>, really, more like <em>spilled</em>—on the couch, his head tilted nearly to the armrest, one arm flung over the back, one leg tucked beneath the cushions, that couldn’t <em>possibly</em> be comfortable, but the man seemed content enough. He had (and Aziraphale barely suppressed an audible intake of breath when he realized this) removed his sunglasses, and they lay folded on the round marble end table.</p><p>“Here, let me uncork this, it’s nothing special but I’ve found this <em>appellation</em> to be light and fruity …” he babbled, and busied himself with pouring the wine. Crowley looked up and smiled as he handed over the glass. This time, Aziraphale did gasp.</p><p>Crowley’s eyes were … well, technically they were yellow, he supposed, but that was hardly the right word. In the dim light, the irises were the color of fine Scotch whisky, the color of melting sugar just before it burned. The pupils weren’t round, but … blurry, one almost-but-not-quite slit, the other a more amorphous smudge.</p><p>They were <em>beautiful</em>.</p><p>Unfortunately, Crowley must have misinterpreted the noise he made. He flinched and reached for his glasses. “Sorry, so sorry, I forget how weird they look,” he mumbled.</p><p>“No, please don’t!” Aziraphale set his wine glass and the bottle down firmly. “Not unless you’d prefer, I mean. Your eyes are quite unusual, yes—and no, I am <em>not</em> asking, not unless <em>you</em> want to talk about it—but they are quite lovely, and I consider it an enormous privilege to be able to see them.”</p><p>Crowley rolled his head as if to bury it in the sofa cushions, but Aziraphale could still see that his ears had gone completely red. “S’not a big deal. S’called coloboma, was born with it, not at all interesting.” He sat up a little straighter to grab his wine glass and took a large swallow. “So, you really <em>do</em> live in a bookshop,” he said, patently attempting to change the subject. “It actually suits you.”</p><p>Aziraphale shrugged. “I must confess, I’ve never known anything different.”</p><p>“And, like, all your ancestors were named Aziraphale, um, Zed-something? Like it says over the door? Or is the A-Z some sort of inside bookseller joke?”</p><p>“Er, yes and no. I’m Aziraphale Zerachiel—oh don’t make that face, I assure you that you cannot come up with <em>anything</em> I haven’t heard a thousand times—and my father was Anael Zedekiah and it goes like that for generations, all the way back to the original ‘A Z Fell’, Ariel Zadkiel of distinguished memory, who first opened the bookshop and started the custom.”</p><p>“Fuck me sideways,” Crowley said with deep reverence. “No disrespect to the paterfamilias, but that’s enough to make me grateful I don’t even know who my sperm donor <em>was.</em>”</p><p>With some effort, Aziraphale kept his face neutral. It was so unlike Crowley to share any part of his past that he wasn’t quite sure that he had heard it correctly, and he certainly wasn’t going to risk acknowledging it. “It can be … restful … to be part of a family tradition. For the one thing, practically any internet search on the name <em>Aziraphale</em> will point to me.”</p><p>“You say that like it’s a good thing. Pretty much any googling for <em>Crowley</em> will land on a real-life Satanist or a fictional demon. Makes anything <em>I </em>do look saintly by comparison.” He smirked, then went on, “Don’t recall any Aziraphale in the Bible, to be honest, but I’ve hardly made an exhaustive study of the book.”</p><p>“It isn’t in the Scriptures. My father claims to have found the name in a medieval manuscript listing archangels, but I’ve long suspected that it’s a bastardization of the Islamic <em>Israfil</em>—often equated with Raphael—via the same process that twisted, oh, Ibn Rushd into Averroes.” He poured himself another glass of wine, and topped off Crowley’s at the same time.</p><p>Crowley laughed. “So you’re saying your name means ‘<em>bastard angel</em>’. Oh, that’s just too perfect.”</p><p>“I didn’t say… oh, you fiend,” Aziraphale said affectionately. He took a healthy sip of wine, and his signet ring glinted. “Oh! Yet another family tradition.” He twisted off the ring, and handed it over. “Passed down from father to son, from old Ariel himself.”</p><p>Crowley inspected the piece of jewelry, tilting it this way and that in the dim light. “<em>Ariel</em> meaning ‘<em>Lion of God</em>’. Hence the design, with the …” he pointed “big kitty-thingy and the angel feathers and whatnot.”</p><p>Aziraphale blinked. “Yes, precisely. I’m impressed.”</p><p>“Nah. You ask as many questions as I do, you’re bound to pick up an answer or two.” He handed the ring back. “But that bit of bling suits you, too.”</p><p>“Why, thank you.” Once again, Aziraphale felt a warmth on his cheeks. “I sometimes regret that I’ll have no one to pass it onto, but …” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I suppose that it’s better not to burden anyone with, I don’t know, <em>Abednego Zuriel</em>.”</p><p>“You don’t know that,” Crowley shrugged. “Still time, if you want. And there’s always <em>Abigail Zipporah</em>. Start your own tradition.”</p><p>Really, Crowley could be a most <em>charming</em> conversationalist.</p><p>And he stayed that way for most of the evening, as one bottle became three, and the topics under discussion veered away from the personal to the political to the preposterous, and Aziraphale found himself at one point vigorously defending the ability of elephants to climb trees, and That Demon insisting that would only frighten the dolphins. At any rate, after eventually indulging in an extended monologue upon <em>The Prince</em> being an elaborate practical joke Machiavelli had played, and how he died of disappointment that none of his readers seemed to <em>get</em> it, when he realized that Crowley had stopped answering quite a while back.</p><p>Aziraphale heaved himself out of his armchair and wobbled over to the sofa. Crowley’s eyes were closed, and to all appearances he seemed to have dissolved halfway into the cushions. His mouth was slack until he smacked his lips and blew a pink Beaujolais bubble.</p><p>Aziraphale nearly melted with fondness.</p><p>He clasped his hands together and dithered for a few minutes as to whether he should wake his guest. That sofa was old, and couldn’t be too supportive to sleep on; but Crowley hadn’t complained, and was certainly in no fit state to be driving home. Aziraphale could call a taxi, or one of those newfangled <em>Uplift</em> (or whatever they were called) rideshares, but his old flip phone hadn’t any apps installed and he didn’t want to embarrass Crowley with the kind of genial gossip that Scroggie, Tadfield’s late-night taxi driver, <em>would</em> indulge in. He finally decided to remove Crowley’s shoes. If that woke him, well and good; if he slept through the process, obviously it was meant for Aziraphale to host him for the night, and at least he’d be a bit more snug.</p><p>Feeling very daring, Aziraphale carefully unlaced Crowley’s snakeskin boots and delicately slipped them off, revealing long narrow feet in black socks. The right sock was rubbed thin near the heel, exposing a small patch of pale skin, and causing Aziraphale to feel almost unbearably protective.</p><p>Crowley groaned, then flopped over face down. He started making sounds halfway between a whistle and a snore.</p><p>Aziraphale placed a tall glass of water and a packet of analgesic medication on the end table next to Crowley’s dark glasses. He fetched some blankets (blue and beige tartan, warm <em>and</em> stylish) and draped them over the sleeping Demon, who muttered “<em>ngl</em>,” smiled, and tucked one of the blankets under his cheek.</p><p>Aziraphale tiptoed away to his own bed as quietly as he could, before he did something unforgivably foolish.</p><p>He was normally an early riser, even on his days off, but this particular Friday he slept well past sunrise and awoke feeling fuzzy and heavy-headed. He was a bit confused by this grogginess until he noticed the water and paracetamol he had left prominently on his own nightstand.</p><p>Oh, <em>right</em>. He ran his hands through his curls and drank down the water and medication. He put on his robe and padded softly down the stairs; no matter how late he had slept, he had surely arisen before Crowley. That Demon liked to boast of being a world-class sleeper. It would be delightful to fry up a little breakfast, and see if he remembered how to make coffee.</p><p>As it turned out, his barista skills were not put to the test. The downstairs shop was dark and quiet, and the sofa empty except for a pile of neatly folded blankets. When he went into the kitchen he was startled to discover (along with the glass in the sink) a smaller version of a familiar white bakery box with a scribbled note:</p><p>
  <em>Angel:</em>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Thx for the painkillers</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Sorry for making a tit of myself last nite</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Had a good time tho</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Like to do it again? Txt me y/n</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>(I swear I’m not in middle school anymore)</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <strike>love</strike>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p><strike></strike>- C</p>
</blockquote><p>The second-to-last word had been heavily scratched out, but Aziraphale could still read it. It caused his heart to clench in a sweetly painful way, even though he was quite sure it was merely the reflexive sign-off to a friendly note.</p><p>He made himself a pot of tea before opening the box to regard four (!) of his favorite pastries, and spared a moment to wonder how Crowley knew which ones to choose—although, to be strictly honest, at this point <em>any</em> pastries Crowley provided would automatically become his favorites.</p><p>After drinking two cups of strong breakfast tea and devouring every crumb of the pastries (and licking the sweet flakes off his fingers, it wasn’t as if there was anyone else to see) Aziraphale <em>finally</em> permitted himself to pull out his phone and laboriously type in:</p><p>
  <em>Thank you my dear for the pastries.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do wish that you had stayed to enjoy them with me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The answer to your question however is quite definitely Y.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>cool cool cool</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>won t be @ library Sat</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>got a Thing</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>work Thing</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>see u Sun ?</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Sunday afternoon or evening would be delightful</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>K</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>will txt</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>❎</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What on earth is that?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>All I see is a strange blank square</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Angel</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>PLEASE</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>upgrade yr phone</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>that was a emoji</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Oh. Like a smiley face?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>:)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Yr killing me angel</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>&lt;3</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale spent far too long staring at his phone with a silly smile before he finally pocketed it and started working on the herbarium.</p><p>Saturday morning, Aziraphale was sure to leave early enough that he might purchase pastries for the staff who had volunteered for Saturday shifts in expectation of such treats. He steadfastly ignored the raised eyebrows and speculative whispers as he deposited the box in the breakroom. Indeed, he managed to ignore practically everything as he floated through the day: Uriel’s frustration at her inability to answer a complicated question on copyright in the European Union (who knew that in France, it depended on not only date but also veteran status?); a vicious argument in the backroom between Dagon and Michael over the latter’s unilateral decision to reclassify the classic comic strips to the Graphic Novel section on the grounds that ‘<em>that’s where people look for them</em>!’ (Aziraphale privately agreed, they had never circulated in the 741’s, but it wasn’t Michael’s call); and even Mrs. Ormerod’s stridency as she demanded that he order the next volume in the <em>Amish Vampires</em> series, which wasn’t due to be published until January next (“<em>Well, if you won’t order it for me, can you borrow it from </em>another<em> library?</em>”).</p><p>By Sunday morning he could barely pay any attention at church services—which was a pity, since the sermon was based on the almost-ironically relevant text of 1 John 4:18. He didn’t even try to eat any luncheon, far too abuzz with anticipation. All of this he freely acknowledged was ridiculous, and very likely inappropriate, for a middle-aged man simply waiting to spend time with a friend.</p><p>A friend who had sent him a <em>heart emoji</em>.</p><p>He checked his phone again.</p><p>Finally, at precisely 2:13 in the afternoon, the <em>knock-knock</em> of a text notification had him diving for his device. He flipped it open to read:</p><p>
  <strong>Angel</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>plz don t b mad</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>can t make it today</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>The Thing is being very</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Thing-ish</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Will make it up 2 u </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Promise</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>PLZ DON T B MAD</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Of course I am not angry</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(although I confess to a keen disappointment).</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your work responsibilities surely come first.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Let me know if and when you can meet some other time.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>U R a litral ANGEL</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>THANK U</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>THANK U</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>THANK U</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>&lt;3</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>will txt soon</strong>
</p><p> </p><p><em>I shall look forward to it</em>.</p><p>Aziraphale closed his phone and placed it on the counter. He maintained the happy smile on his face by sheer force of will. It wasn’t as if he was being, what was the phrase, <em>stood up</em> for a date, after all. Crowley sounded sincerely regretful at being overwhelmed with … whatever it was he was doing. He would surely reschedule. Possibly by tonight, even. Certainly by tomorrow.</p><p>Crowley did not text that night. Or on Monday.</p><p>On Tuesday, Anathema took one look at Aziraphale, squinted, and declared, “<em>Ay</em>, boss, your aura is a <em>mess</em>. The weirdest combination of excitement and flat despair that I’ve ever seen. Something you want to talk about?”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m fine, dear girl. Quite tickety-boo.”</p><p>She gave him a dubious stare.</p><p>“All right,” he conceded. “I confess to being a bit nervous about this whole Summer Reading farrago.”</p><p>She tilted her head. “It doesn’t start for another two weeks, though, right? Is everything ready to go?”</p><p>“On our end, yes.” He sighed. “Tracy Madam’s due to send us the first chapter today, so we can set it up for distribution. The plan is to extract a snippet for publicity purposes, and then email the entire chapter to everyone who signs up and sets a reading goal by the first day.”</p><p>“All fifty or so of ‘em,” Anathema joked.</p><p>“Oh, do be optimistic. I am hoping for at least a hundred.” He clasped his hands together tightly. “We’ll need an impressive bump in our statistics, after all, to justify the expense of printing the completed novella for those who meet their goal. Especially since La Madame saw fit to include a color cover without consulting us.”</p><p>“It is a pretty great cover, though,” she pointed out. “If I get permission, I’m going to have it put on t-shirts for the whole family.”</p><p>“Excellent notion. Make sure there’s one for young Newton as well. The artist’s interpretation of you is exceedingly glamorous.”</p><p>She laughed. “<em>You</em> look fine as well. Two-thirds <em>brood</em>, two-thirds <em>smolder</em>, and one hundred percent <em>erudite</em>. Shall I have one printed on black for a certain Demon patron?” Her grin suddenly froze. “Omi<em>god</em>, your aura just <em>boiled over</em>, what did that <em>ojete</em> do?”</p><p>“Anathema, <em>please</em>, just leave it lie.” His skin felt too tight. “Nothing. It is really nothing.”</p><p>“All right, Aziraphale. If you say so.” She dug into her handbag and pulled out a small pouch. “Here. Hold on to this anyhow. It can’t hurt.”</p><p>Rather than argue, he tucked it into his coat pocket. “Very well, my dear. Thank you.”</p><p>Alone and safe in his office, Aziraphale scrubbed his face with his hands and ran his fingers through his hair. This sort of thing was exactly why he had given up on … <em>relationships</em> … all those years ago. Dizzying excitement, endless worry, inevitable rejection … he simply wasn’t manufactured in any way to cope with <em>feelings.</em> Too <em>exhausting</em>. They went far too fast for him. Better to just … stop. Sooner, rather than later.</p><p>He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turned it off, and buried it in his briefcase, which he shut with a defiant <em>zzzip</em> and shoved under his desk.</p><p>With renewed determination, he began scrolling through email. And there it was:</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>From: sexykittenboots@simonmacrandompenguin.com</p>
  <p>To: azfell@tadfieldpl.gov</p>
  <p>Subject: <em>Stacked! A FindingLove@YourLibrary</em> Novella - Ch 1</p>
</blockquote><p>Taking a deep breath, Aziraphale clicked on the attachment and began to read.</p><p>Twenty minutes later, he pushed back his chair and folded his hands on his desk. He continued to sit there, unmoving, unblinking, eyes fixed on nothing, until Uriel knocked on his door to remind him that his Reference shift had begun.</p><p>Somehow he got through the next two hours without noticing what anyone asked or what he answered.</p><p>Upon being relieved at the desk, he went in search of Anathema. He found her eating lunch in the breakroom; but after taking one look at his face, she immediately abandoned her salad to follow him to his office. He waved her to his desk chair, saying “I’ve received the first chapter. I’d … really like your opinion.”</p><p>She winced. “That bad? La Madame doesn’t have either of us doing the nasty, does she?”</p><p>“No. Please, just … I may be reading things into it that aren’t there.”</p><p>Anathema studied him a few moments more, then swiveled the chair around and began to read the document on the screen. She immediately stopped to exclaim, “<em>DeVilla</em>? What kind of name is DeVilla? And <em>Anita</em>! <em>Mi abuelita </em>is called Anita!”</p><p>“Considering that my <em>alter ego</em> has been christened Rafael Veldt, I do assure you that I feel your pain,” Aziraphale responded drily. “However, the character names are the least of my concerns.”</p><p>Grimly, Anathema read on.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Anita DeVilla ran her hand across the spines of the books in her section and smiled.</em>
  </p>
  <p><em>Here, in the library, where every golden shaft of sunlight was thick as syrup with dancing dustmotes, where the air was sharp with the scents of leather and paper and ink, where the muffled shrieks from the story-hour children was punctuated with the contrapunto from rumbling bookcarts across the uneven tiled floor; here, in the library, where everyone who entered, old friend or stranger alike, came as a supplicant, a pilgrim to the transforming goddess of knowledge, where she and all her colleagues were united in the common mission of preserving that knowledge and sharing it with those who sought it; here, in the library, she was </em>safe<em>.</em></p>
  <p>
    <em>Not like her old life, with her family. That was also safe, but in a very different way: the safety of wealth; of position; of submission; of having every decision pre-made, every choice neatly fenced-in. The safety of a golden prison.</em>
  </p>
  <p><em>But working as a librarian had been </em>her<em> choice, not her family’s. They hadn’t disapproved, exactly, but it hadn’t been on the narrow list of options (banker, fund manager, economist, corporate lawyer) that had been set before her, either. They made it perfectly clear that the penumbra of the DeVilla name would continue to shelter her, despite her unfortunate ‘</em>adolescent rebellion’<em> (Anita was nearly thirty, thank you very much), keeping her secure until she came to her senses and returned to the family business. She reminded herself every day that, while resentment would only poison her mind, she needn’t feel grateful either. </em></p>
  <p>
    <em>Instead, Anita put considerable effort into expressing herself as the exact opposite of everything that a DeVilla was expected to be. Everything that a librarian was expected to be as well, she supposed. She was raucous and rude and slightly raunchy; she was outspoken and opinionated and over-the-top; she was eccentric and extra and, okay, maybe just a bit emo. She didn’t so much push the envelope as rip through it with the switchblade stashed in her boot; and every time she went too far yet didn’t fall over the edge, she knew that she was still safe.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Also, Anita was in love.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Or at least she thought so. </em>
  </p>
  <p><em>She’d never been in love before, so she wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to feel like. But she couldn’t imagine that anything could feel better, warmer, </em>safer<em>, than the way she felt around her immediate supervisor, Rafael Veldt.</em></p>
  <p><em>He wasn’t at all the sort of person she’d ever imagine falling in love with. He was quite a bit older than her, to start with. He was beautiful, but not in any sort of obvious way: fair and silver where she was brown and midnight, broad and soft where she was tall and shapely, old-fashioned and, well, </em>beige<em>, where she was stylish and dramatic. Yet he was brilliant, and drily witty; gentle, and infinitely kind; perceptive, and overflowing with generosity; and above all </em>strong<em>, in his subtle way. The first time she met him she had been instantly put in mind of an angel: not a waifish, moody Art Nouveau sylph, nor even less a chubby Renaissance cherub; but some sort of Gothic warrior guardian, halo and sword aflame, mail and surcoat shining, with outspread wings like some kind of heavy white cape. </em></p>
  <p>
    <em>Which was ironic, once she got to know him better. It seemed that his family had always had an affinity for angels; most of the children had angelic names, and the family crest displayed on his signet ring displayed angel wings and the Lion of God.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>But if Rafael was any sort of ethereal being, it was her own private guardian angel: he taught her, inspired her, laughed with her, and protected her. He made Anita feel safe and loved and more herself than she ever had in her entire life.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>And nothing terrified her more than the thought of letting him know any of this.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Anathema slowly met Aziraphale’s eyes. “<em>Chale</em>!” she swore, with heartfelt fervency.</p><p>“My thoughts precisely,” he agreed. “<em>Mutatis mutandis</em>, of course.”</p><p>“Does the rest of it go on like this?”</p><p>“Not quite as … <em>revealing</em>,” he admitted. “But sufficiently so as to make me, at least, feel distressingly … exposed."</p><p>“I don’t suppose it comes as any comfort that you come off as utterly swoonworthy, does it?” Anathema tried on a smile, but didn’t quite pull it off. “Somebody’s got it <em>bad</em>.”</p><p>“Not … really, no. Absolute nonsense. But I must say, it is quite an insightful portrait of <em>you</em>,” Aziraphale noted. “Under other circumstances … You haven’t, perchance, shared those particular tidbits of your past with anyone else, have you?”</p><p>Mutely, she shook her head. Then she sighed. “They’re not precisely state secrets, but … no. You know that I don’t like to talk about my family. And the other stuff, like how we met … no particular reason for it to come up.” She folded her arms on his desk and buried her head in it, muffling her next words. “Let me guess. All that stuff about <em>your</em> family, your <em>ring</em> … Happened to pop up in chitchat with a particular Demon?”</p><p>“Indeed.” Aziraphale forgot himself so much as to perch on the edge of his desk. “As you say, it’s not exactly <em>private</em>, but …”</p><p>She turned her head to face him, and smiled thinly. “But.”</p><p>“But,” he agreed.</p><p>“So …” she sat up again and shoved a pen forcefully into her hair. “You think he’ll be in tomorrow? Gonna confront him in public? I’ll be happy to back your play.”</p><p>“Good heavens, no,” Aziraphale said. “I can’t think of anything less helpful than a scene. I … I do have his telephone number, you know.” He pursed his lips at her narrowed eyes. He did <em>not </em>want to discuss that now. “I’ll … I’ll talk to him. It doesn’t really matter. We can hardly call off the reading program <em>now</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Me vale veinte mil kilos de reata</em>,” she spat.</p><p>“Well, <em>I</em> care,” Aziraphale retorted. “And so should you,” he said more mildly. “Think of those fifty loyal patrons.”</p><p>At this opportune moment, Newton Pulsifer knocked on his door and peered in, oblivious to the somber mood. “You busy, Dr. Fell, <em>Aziraphale</em>—oh, hi, Anathema, you’ll want to hear this—you’ll never guess!”</p><p>Anathema’s smile was strained. Aziraphale asked, “What is it, Newton?”</p><p>“So!” The Teen Librarian was bouncing like an overstimulated puppy. “I was in the Summer Reading module, right? Checking my signups, seeing if I had enough supplies?”</p><p>Anathema said, “You can’t possibly have crashed the system, you wouldn’t look so happy,” at the same moment that Aziraphale said, “I take it your program is doing well?”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, about two hundred already, on track to do better than last summer,” Newt allowed himself to be diverted, but for only a moment. “But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I went in to check Adult signups as well, okay? And you know, don’t you, that Tracy Madam has been hinting at this whole thing in her online newsletter, yeah?”</p><p>“Ye-e-es,” Aziraphale said slowly.</p><p>“Aziraphale, you’ve got over <em>twelve hundred</em> people pre-registered, and the program hasn’t even started yet!”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I should note here that the author who wrote a murder mystery for my library’s Adult Summer Reading Program (and indirectly inspired that plotline) was nothing but professional, respectful, and insistent upon boundaries and informed consent.  The only problem we had was more staff wanting to get bumped off than she could possibly accommodate.</p><p>Next week: Oof.  Next chapter takes place mostly at a bandstand.  I’m sure that doesn’t mean anything, though, and everything will be just fine.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 302.2 (Communication, failures and disruptions thereof)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i> Crowley leaned their head back against the column and blew out a sigh.  “Look, it’s complicated.  But if you’d give me a chance to explain …”  They seemed to run out of words. </i>
  <br/>
  <i> Aziraphale waited a few moments; then said with chilly politeness, “That’s precisely what I came here to do.  But it seems that you have no explanations at hand.  Good day, then.  </i>
</p><p>A bandstand, an argument, and the fallout thereof.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Wow!  Y'all were seriously unhappy with poor Crowley last chapter.  He gets a chance to explain himself in this one, and I'm certain that everything will be cleared up to everyone's satisfaction.</p><p>I can never express sufficient gratitude to burnttongueontea for beta-ing above and beyond the call of duty.  The first version of this chapter had to be tossed completely, and it was only through their prompt editing and helpful suggestions that I was able to post anything coherent on schedule.</p><p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Vulgar language.  Background of abuse (nothing explicit, only hinted at)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <code>
    <em>
      I need to speak with you.
    </em>
  </code>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <code>
    <b>M busy rt now angel</b>
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code>
    <b>C u tomorrow</b>
  </code>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <code>
    <em> 
      Crowley, this is a conversation that cannot wait.
    </em>
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code>
    <em> I would prefer to speak with you in private.</em>
  </code>
</p><p>
  <em> <code>
      …
    </code> </em>
</p><p>
  <code>
    <em>
      We received the first chapter of Tracy Madam’s novella today.
    </em>
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code>
    <em>
      I think you know what I want to say.
    </em>
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code>
    <em>
      I will be at the bandstand in the town square
    </em>
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code>
    <em>
      as soon as I can get there after work.
    </em>
  </code>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <code> <strong>
    Shit
  </strong></code>
</p><p>
   <code><strong>
    shitshitshitshitshitSHIT
  </strong></code>
</p><p>
   <code><strong>
    Angel I can explain
  </strong></code>
</p><p>
   <code><strong>
    M sorry
  </strong></code>
</p><p>
  <code> </code>
</p><p>
  <code><strong> 
    Angel?
  </strong></code>
</p><p>
  <code>
    
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code><strong> 
    <b>Angel?</b>
  </strong></code> 
</p><p>
  <code>
    
  </code>
</p><p>
  <code><strong> 
    <b>SHIT</b>
  </strong></code> 
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The Tadfield Square bandstand, situated behind a grove of poplars to one edge of the greenspace, was a popular meeting place on weekend afternoons; on a Tuesday evening, however, it was considerably more isolated.  By the time Aziraphale arrived, Crowley was the only person in sight, leaning stiffly against a supporting pillar, fingers jammed in tiny pockets.</p><p>Something about Crowley’s attire—skinny women’s jeans, dark grey poet blouse with open lacing at the throat—gave Aziraphale pause, and made the first words out of his mouth different from those he had prepared.</p><p>“Mr. Crowley?  <em> Is </em> it ‘ <em> Mister </em>’ today?  Or would you prefer Ms or Mx?”</p><p>Crowley shot him a glance.  “S’not important.”</p><p>“I have sufficient cause to be angry and disappointed.  I don’t need to stoop to petty disrespect,” Aziraphale said with some exasperation. </p><p>“Mx, if you must,” Crowley muttered, hunching their shoulders.  “I’ve told you a billion times, though, it’s just <em> Crowley </em>.”</p><p>“Mmmph,” Aziraphale answered.  “I am not feeling particularly friendly at the moment.  I was, to be frank, about to address you as <em> Tracy Madam </em>.”</p><p>Crowley leaned their head back against the column and blew out a sigh.  “Look, it’s complicated.  But if you’d give me a chance to explain …”  They seemed to run out of words.</p><p>Aziraphale waited a few moments, then said with chilly politeness: “That’s precisely what I came here to do.  But it seems that you have no explanations at hand.  Good day, then.  It would be a … kindness … if you would schedule any future visits to the public library to times when neither Ms Device nor I were on duty at the Reference Desk.”  He turned to leave.</p><p>“No, wait!”  Crowley lunged across the bandstand and caught Aziraphale by the upper arm.  Their nails, Aziraphale noted irrelevantly, had been painted a glittering scarlet.  He glared at the hand nonetheless, and they hastily removed it.  “I’m sorry, I’m <em> sorry </em>, all right?  This is me apologizing, work with me here!  It’s just … ‘M trying to figure out how …”</p><p>“I have found that the <em> truth </em> is always a good start,” Aziraphale stated, still in that cold tone.  He was finding it difficult to maintain, in the face of Crowley’s evident distress; but then, he had been fooled too many times in the past.  <em> Obviously </em>.</p><p>“I <em> told </em> you the truth!” Crowley cried, flinging their hands in the air.  “I’ve never lied to you.  I swear it, Angel.”</p><p>“Don’t call me that!” For the first time in this conversation, Aziraphale lost control of his voice.  “Not after …”  He swallowed, and twisted his fingers behind his back.  “I don’t call you <em> Demon </em> for all the world and his wife to hear.”</p><p>“You’re welcome to,” Crowley said earnestly.  “I don’t care <em> what </em> you call me.  So long as you keep talking to me.”  They scrubbed both hands through their ginger hair.  “Okay.  Okay.  I’ll tell you everything.  Although I’m about to violate a whole metric fuckton of NDAs, and probably get my ass put on trial.  Can we … can we go somewhere else, though?  Dinner, maybe?”</p><p>“No.  This location suits me just fine.”  Aziraphale crossed his arms across his chest.  He did not dare risk softening his stance—literal or metaphorical—in the slightest. </p><p>Crowley sighed again and perched on the railing, back against a pillar.  Their face was turned aside from Aziraphale, looking over the trees.  “Okay, it’s like you said.  Sort of.  I <em> am </em> Tracy Madam.  And Dirk Brand.  And Jim Peterson.  Well, Max Spicule ‘writing as Jim Peterson’.  And … well, there’s a whole list.  But I’m <em> not </em>, at the same time.”</p><p>Aziraphale tried to follow.  “You’re a ghostwriter, then?”</p><p>“No, no, no.”  Crowley grimaced.  “I mean, you’ve met Marj, Marjorie Potts.  <em> She </em> ’s Tracy Madam, really.  I’m sort of the <em> fake </em> Tracy Madam.  <em> Arrrrghh </em> .  I’m botching this.  Words, how do they <em> work </em>, anyhow?  Anyways, I’m a draft hack.”</p><p>“A … what?  Crowley, you’re not making any sense.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know.  You’ve never heard of draft hacking.  Makes sense, there aren’t many of us, and we’re not allowed to talk about it.   Let me start at the beginning.”  Crowley swung their legs over so they were now seated facing Aziraphale.  They took their glasses off and closed their eyes.  “So.  I was studying English in college, as one does, as <em> you </em> probably did …” They trailed off.</p><p>Aziraphale said nothing.  He’d already handed too much of himself over to Crowley, and couldn’t afford to lose any more.</p><p>Crowley pressed their lips together, but then went on.  “Got kicked out for … well, technically for plagiarism, but I didn’t <em> mean </em> to.  Didn’t ask the right questions, I guess.  Anyways, after getting ejected from the old <em> alma mater </em> , one of my ex-profs had a job offer for me.  He wrote a weekly op-ed column for <em> Morningstar </em> , you know that online shit-stirring site?  He needed a researcher.  Crap publication, crap hours, crap pay, but … it was nice to be <em> wanted </em> .  So I did that for a few years.  Got a bit of a reputation, started getting similar work with the other writers, until old Nick, the editor-in-chief, gave me a shot.  I wanted to impress him, okay?  And I’ve always been really good at spotting patterns, figuring out tropes, so … One week when I turned in my research, I didn’t just present the facts, I actually wrote a column.  Copied his style, his turn of phrase and everything.  Pretty cheeky, now that I look back on it, I was lucky he didn’t fire me on the spot, but instead he laughed, said he could write his own opinions, but he had some people he thought could <em> use my talents </em>.  And that’s how it started.”  They stopped, and took a deep breath.</p><p>Aziraphale nodded.  “Go on, then.”</p><p>Crowley rubbed their eyes.  Their stunning golden gaze met Aziraphale’s for a moment, as if pleading with him to understand, then they put their dark glasses back on.  “You know how over the past couple of decades, publishers have been pushing genre authors to produce more and more in less time, right?  An established midlist author used to be able to submit a new book every two, three years or so.  Then it was every eighteen months, then every year; now even some best-selling authors are expected to publish two books a year.  Hardly any writers can meet that kind of pressure.  Creative work isn’t like making widgets, you can’t just speed up the word conveyer belt, after all.”</p><p>Aziraphale nodded again.  “I follow a number of authors on social media.  I’m aware of the situation.”</p><p>“Good.  Then you’ll understand.  Some writers, <em> most </em> writers, just do the best they can.  Some, like Peterson, set up a whole stable of so-called ‘co-authors’ and are now cranking out new books every <em> month </em> .  Others … they hire someone like me.”  They shrugged.  “ <em> Officially </em> , I’m a ‘research assistant.’  And a lot of what I do <em> is </em> research—I mean, well, I’ll get someone like you to do the <em> actual </em> research, but at least I’m asking the questions.  But how it works is … Okay.  Say you’re an author, got six months to submit a novel.  You come up with a basic plot, character names and descriptions, set pieces you want included, that sort of thing.  You send that to me.  Now <em> me </em> , I’ve read all your books, I’ve … <em> distilled </em> them down to <em> these </em> particular tropes, <em> this </em> kind of pacing, <em> that </em> standard character arc, and so forth, so I’ll use what you gave me, weave all the research into the narrative at the right places,  and … write a first draft, in essence.  It’s not like ghostwriting.  I mean, you’re certainly not going to submit what I send you, it’s pure hackwork at best, you’re going to re-write it and re-jigger it, and make it something uniquely your <em> own </em>, but … it’s a starting point.  Helluva lot better than staring at a blank page.  But you sure don’t want word getting ‘round that you’ve done that.”</p><p>Aziraphale didn’t know what to think.  He had never heard of such a thing, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t <em> plausible </em> .  “And you provide this, this … <em> service </em> … for Tracy Madam?”</p><p>Crowley nodded.  “Three books now.  She’s the only romance writer I’ve hacked for.  I mostly do military adventure, spy thrillers, that sort of thing.  But she writes romantic suspense, and I can always use more work, and, well, you’ve <em> met </em>her…”</p><p>“Still …” Aziraphale was now positively <em> avid </em> with curiosity, but he mustn’t allow himself to be distracted.  How Crowley made their living wasn’t the real point of contention, after all.  “Even if I accept at face value everything you’ve said, it doesn’t address what you’ve done, what you are <em> doing </em> , to Anathema and myself, not in the <em> slightest </em>.”</p><p>“I didn’t <em> mean </em> to!” Crowley said.  “I wasn’t going to work on this one at <em> all </em> !  Yeah, okay, I recommended Tadfield to Marj when she was looking for a library to donate to, I <em> might </em> have told some stories about you, <em> all </em> of you, but I said I wouldn’t work on this one.   But she kept pushing me, <em> just a little more background, you know them all so well </em> , and I didn’t think it would <em> hurt </em>—”</p><p>“Nor,” said Aziraphale, quivering with anger, “did you think to <em> ask </em>.”</p><p>“I <em> did </em> ask!  I told you I was, uh, researching for a client who wanted to know about librarians!”</p><p>“That was a deliberate obfuscation, and you know it.”</p><p>“Yeah, okay, but …” Crowley held their arms wide, in appeal.  “Like I said, I’ve signed all those NDAs, and even if I hadn’t, if I’d told you <em> everything </em>, would you have answered?”</p><p>“Of cour—” Aziraphale stopped.  <em> Would </em> he have, though?  If the librarians had known that their candid anecdotes would have been published for everyone to read, would either he or Anathema have been so forthcoming?  Oh, he was a <em> terrible </em> librarian, but he suspected he would have fallen back on dull professional boilerplate. “Well, if I wouldn’t, that’s all you should have needed to know, isn’t it?  Anathema and I answered as we did out of a, a, <em> spirit of friendliness </em>, and you took advantage of that!”</p><p>“Oh, come off it, Aziraphale.”  Crowley sounded dismissive, and that further stoked his feelings of hurt and betrayal.   “S’not like I revealed anything <em> bad </em> about you two.  I don’t understand why you’re so mad.”</p><p>“It isn’t about <em>good</em> and <em>bad</em>, Crowley.  It’s about privacy.  <em>Boundaries</em>. Anathema made it <em>very </em>clear that she was uncomfortable discussing her background.  And I <em>certainly</em> wasn’t on duty when I told you about my family.”  It seemed to Aziraphale that he was completely losing the thread of this discussion.  Why should he even have to <em>explain</em> this?  “Do you not understand how friendship even <em>works</em>?”</p><p>“And where should I have learned such a thing?”  Crowley glared over their lenses.</p><p>Aziraphale felt that like a body blow.  “I’m sure that I don’t know.”  He turned away, trying to hide his expression.  “I suppose that I should apologize for … pretending that you are something that you’re not.”</p><p>“<em> Fuck </em> .  Aziraphale, <em> please </em>.  I didn’t mean …”</p><p>“Well, I <em> did </em> .”  He faced Crowley again.  “All those months ago, I said that librarians and patrons shouldn’t, <em> couldn’t </em> be friends.  And you mocked me for it.”  He took a deep breath.  “I should have listened to my own advice.”</p><p>“Just <em> listen </em>to me…”</p><p>“Mx Crowley.  I’ve had just about enough of your words already today.”</p><p>“<em> I didn’t think Marj would use it! </em> ” Crowley was almost yelling now.  They stared at him, looking shocked at their own vehemence.  “That first chapter, I mean.  She <em> always </em> junks practically everything I send her.  I just about had a heart attack when I saw she’d only prettied it up, made it more <em> her </em> , sent it back with a note ‘ <em> congratulations, ducks, we’ll make a writer out of you yet </em>.’”</p><p>Aziraphale didn’t know what to say.  His accursed retentive memory helpfully supplied some of the more extravagant descriptions from the story he had received that morning.  “Do you mean to tell me that <em> you </em> wrote that chapter?”</p><p>“<em> Ngk </em> .”  Crowley made an indescribable noise and scratched the back of their neck.  “Hacked a draft, yeah?” They held out their hands, palm up.  “I know, I <em> know </em> , I said I wasn’t going to, but … Marj had sent me the outline anyhow, I know what she had in mind, then <em> you </em> told me about Witch Girl and the kid, that they were <em> serious </em> , and it didn’t … <em> sit right </em> , so I … I went to Marj and … we made a <em> deal </em>.”</p><p>Despite the obvious opening, Aziraphale refused to ask.  Whether or not they thought they were doing the right thing, it was not for Crowley to ‘<em> make deals </em>’ over the intimate details of other people’s lives. </p><p>When it became clear that Aziraphale wasn’t going to say anything, Crowley hurried on.  “I asked her to change the plot.  Honestly, it wasn’t that great a plot anyhow, she used the basic framework already, <em> twice </em> , in … well, you don’t care, but the point is, the point <em> is </em> , she said that if I wanted to ‘ <em> rewrite the damn story </em> ’, then I’d have to write it in the first place.”  They leaned forward, like they believed this was their winning play.  “You could <em> help </em> me, Angel.  We could pull this off, <em> together </em>.”</p><p>Aziraphale stared at them, arrested.  “You want us to write this story … <em> together </em>?”</p><p>“Yes!”  Crowley hopped off the railing and started pacing.  “You want your friend and whatsisname to get their happily-ever-after, right?  You want the library to come out looking good, and for you to fade discreetly into the background?  I can cobble together the tropes, I can hack a draft, but you understand how it all <em> works </em> , how a bunch of tired cliches transform into something fresh and, and <em> meaningful </em> ; you could even make it look <em> elegant </em> , you know you could!  Something that Marj won’t take and re-write so that <em> you </em> end up on the run with Witch Girl, and oh no, <em> there’s only one bed </em>!”</p><p>“Listen to yourself, Crowley!” Aziraphale said angrily. “I am not going to be a part of this.  I refuse to be a pawn in some bizarre … <em> plan </em> of yours!  It’s not like you can just write a narrative, and your models will fall into the lines you have scripted for them.  Human beings are not stock characters whose motives and choices you can manipulate.  People, <em> real </em> people, are more complicated than that.”</p><p>All of a sudden, Crowley deflated.  “You think I don’t <em> know </em> that?  Why the fuck do you think I don’t interact with real people?”  They rubbed at their eyes beneath their dark glasses.  “Fuck it up, every time.  I’ll <em> never </em>get it right.”</p><p>“Crowley …”  Aziraphale started forward, then paused.  He desperately wanted to say that they <em> had </em> got it right, had tempted Aziraphale right out of his defensive shell, made him start to question his choices, to dream of <em> possibilities </em> … but he didn’t know if that was the real Crowley, or just another façade he had created.  He didn’t even know if Crowley had been playacting during this entire conversation.  He <em> seemed </em> sincere, he seemed positively <em> distraught </em>, but how could Aziraphale be sure?</p><p>All of his life Aziraphale had been a champion of stories: an acolyte of <em> what if? </em> , a devotee of <em> once upon a time </em> .  But he had become a reference librarian because, at heart, he wanted the security of <em> facts </em>:  the thoroughly researched analysis, the reputable authoritative source.  Here, he had no resource but his own instincts to help him distinguish between truth and fiction ; and past experience had demonstrated that when it came to this sort of thing, he had terrible judgment.</p><p>No.  Aziraphale had assiduously learned the rules of decent behavior.  He had committed to an unyielding set of ethics.  He had permitted Crowley to tempt him into looking away, tweaking his standards, following what he <em> wanted </em> instead of what he knew to be <em> correct </em> , and for what?  He’d paid the price, <em> Anathema </em> had paid the price; it was all going to be awkward and horrid, and that was all on him.</p><p>He was a librarian.  He was a professional.  He had <em> responsibilities </em>. </p><p>Crowley was looking at him in expectation.  Oh yes, he had started to say something, hadn’t he?</p><p>“Crowley,” he went on, very firmly.  “I … accept that you did not act with <em> malice </em> .  For what it’s worth, I … <em> forgive </em> you.  But I cannot pretend that …  We cannot just … Oh, dash it all, I will speak to Gabriel.  I will speak to the <em> Director </em> .  I’m sure that they can sort this whole novella mess out.  But I can no longer allow you the … special privileges … you have you previously enjoyed at the library.  It’s <em> over </em>, Crowley.”</p><p>“I don’t care about the library, I don’t care about the damned novella,” Crowley hissed.  “I care about <em> us </em>, you idiot!”</p><p>“There is no <em> us </em>.  You said it yourself.  You know nothing of friendship.”</p><p>“So, that’s <em> it </em>, then?  You’re just going to …” Crowley made a complicated gesture.</p><p>Aziraphale said nothing.  Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back.  Twisting and turning old Ariel’s ring, reminding him of where he belonged in the uncaring roll of centuries, the duty he owed to generations of expectations.</p><p>Crowley took a deep breath, like he was about to say something further; then let it go.  “Right, then.”  He shook his head.  “Have a nice summer.”  He turned and walked away, without looking back.</p><p>Aziraphale stood there in the bandstand and watched him go.  Stood watching, even after the roar and fade of the Bentley’s engine made it quite clear that Crowley was long gone.  Stood unmoving, as the sun set, and darkness fell, and there was nothing to see at all.</p><p>He did not, as it happened, go talk to Gabriel.  He did not even <em> try </em> to talk to the Director.  What could he possibly say, anyhow?  “Ah, Gabriel, me old mate, about that Summer Reading Program?  The one that has garnered scads of good publicity, signups beyond our wildest dreams, and incidentally begins in ten days?  How about we just cancel the whole thing?”</p><p>Ridiculous.  Gabriel would laugh at him, and he would utterly deserve it.</p><p>The instant he walked into the library the following morning, Anathema insisted that Aziraphale regale her with all the details about his confrontation with That Demon.  He deflected her questions, vouchsafing only that Crowley had admitted his part, insisted that he had meant no harm, apologized most sincerely, and would not be returning to the library.</p><p>“<em> Tantas pendejadas </em>!”  Anathema, unsurprisingly, had not been satisfied.  “Do you still have that charm I gave you?”</p><p>He nodded, and patted his coat pocket.  The fragrance, while somewhat medicinal and peculiar, was not unpleasant; the awareness that his dearest (remaining) friend had created the item for him was comforting, even if he did not endorse her beliefs.  “What is its purpose, my dear?”</p><p>“It’s—don’t laugh, I will <em> cut </em> you if you laugh—demon repellent,” she said.  “Agnes’s recipe: dill, lavender, oregano, parsley, angelica root, clove, juniper, mullein; all bound together with oil of abramelin.  Do <em> not </em> taste it, it will wreak havoc on your digestive system, if it doesn’t kill you outright.”</p><p>“Noted, and thank you.  Although I confess that I wasn’t tempted.”</p><p>“Speaking of temptations, I, uh, also added caraway seeds,” Anathema confessed, turning a little pink.  “To drive away, um, lust demons.  Just in case.”  She pulled a pen out of her hair and started making a list.  “If you like, you could burn some asafoetida at the Reference desk, although it would stink up the place enough to drive away just about <em> everyone </em>;  also, I could make you a wreath for your office, rowan, ivy, boxwood, maybe blackberry, and that would protect you from all demons, malevolent spirits, and maybe root fungus, I’m not sure.” </p><p>“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, my dear,” Aziraphale responded with all sincerity, “But I have very little expectation of this particular Demon approaching close enough to need, er, <em> repellents </em>, anytime in the foreseeable future.”</p><p>Anathema squinted at him over her glasses, like she always did when she claimed to ‘read his aura’.  She made an unhappy <em> moue </em> .  “He’d better not,” she said fiercely.  “Or I shall crush his <em> huevos </em> for guacamole, see if I don’t.”</p><p>Fortunately for Crowley, he did not show up in the library that week, nor the next.  The materials he requested via inter-library loan sat untouched on the hold shelves until it was time to return them.  Aziraphale stopped listening, even subconsciously, for the cheery <em> knock-knock </em> announcing the arrival of a new text.  Even Michael found a different regular outlet for her annoyance. </p><p>Even though Aziraphale said nothing, it quickly became general knowledge among all the library staff that Crowley was responsible for upsetting the reference librarians, and it had something to do with the also-nowhere-to-be-seen Marjorie Potts and the forthcoming romance novella.  Uriel may have been humorless and literal-minded, but she was a sharp observer and quite capable of putting two and two (or, in this case, minus-two) together and coming up with a big fat zero.  Or possibly Anathema had said something to Newt, and he let it slip.  Aziraphale really did not wish to know.</p><p>It was all for the best, really.</p><p>He threw himself energetically into managing the Summer Reading Program.  The local newspaper had picked up on the story of Tracy Madam’s generous donation, which piqued Tadfield’s interest in their staid old public library.  Along with the huge out-of-district signups (most likely spurred by the author’s social media), registration was pushing an astonishing <em> five thousand </em> persons.  Gratifying as that may be, Aziraphale had only budgeted for printing a hundred physical copies of the novella; and he now had to scramble to find funds sufficient for a much more massive order, not to mention increasing his supplies of all the customary swag that went with bribing supposedly sensible adults into logging their reading with a government agency, such as custom pencils, water bottles, and of course gift cards to local restaurants.  He hoped that he could get away omitting the last items as prizes for the remote registrants, or he would have to resort to some terribly undignified begging for cash.</p><p>Moreover, once the first chapter was released to the public, he and Anathema became the target of unwarranted gossip, much as he had dreaded.  Even some staff, who <em> should </em> have known better, began to react to the long-standing friendly banter between the two with raised eyebrows and smothered giggles. Both of them dealt with this speculation in their own ways:  Anathema with a dead-eyed stare and a swift change of subject; Aziraphale with an oblivious smile and the sudden onset of temporary deafness. </p><p>But, alas, he did have to stop scheduling them both on the desk at the same time. The inevitable covert glances and whispers made it quite impossible to concentrate on their professional tasks.  Since young Newton had his hands full with the increased programming for the Teen Summer Reading, this meant more solo shifts for all the staff, which did nothing to alleviate the stress of the customary summer busyness, nonsense, and noise.  </p><p>Still, the Board was bound to be pleased with the numbers that the Adult department was racking up.  And all this extra work had the salutary effect of distracting Aziraphale from thinking about Crowley, fretting about Crowley, <em> missing </em> Crowley … at least when he wasn’t alone in his silent home, or making a pot of tea in the  pastry-less breakroom, or noticing a book that a certain Demon might enjoy, or glimpsing any tall figure with flame-bright hair or clad in funereal colors …</p><p>… until the Monday morning after the release of the second chapter.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I suppose that I should answer the burning question that this chapter gives rise to:  Would Anathema’s demon repellent actually work?<br/>According to everything I’ve read about occult herbology, yes!  Some ingredients are indeed poisonous, some may react with some of the others in unpredictable ways, so caution is always advisable.  But I have most of the components at home, and have personally never been accosted by a demon.  Even by the ones I sorta wouldn’t mind.<br/><br/>Oh, yes; and is “draft hacking” a real thing?  I honestly have no idea!  I did hear an interview a few years back (sorry, I tried to find it again but it seems to have vanished) with an anonymous person who claimed to make a living doing this, and (like Aziraphale) found it plausible in general.  The pressure to produce more content faster is very real, and there have been any number of ghostwriting and flat-out plagiarism scandals in the last decade.<br/>On the other hand, I can’t imagine any of my favourite authors resorting to such a thing, and suspect that they would it find it poor craftsmanship.  Also, as described, it seemed to be a ghastly, poorly-paid, soul-sucking career.<br/>But it <i>did</i> seem to be very much in character for the Crowley in this fic, so I decided to assume it was a real thing (although rather more remunerative).</p><p>Next week: Some of Crowley’s efforts to “fix” the storyline of the novella show up, and manage to make everything <i>worse</i>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 516.22 (Triangles)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <i>Perhaps Aziraphale had misjudged Crowley; if his alterations to Tracy Madam’s projected storyline resulted in Anathema and Newton growing closer, That Demon will have turned out to have done a Good Thing after all.</i>
</p>
<p>Aziraphale has a Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very-Bad Month.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My deepest apologies for all the <i>plot</i> jammed into this chapter.  But this is as low as things get - I <i>promise</i>.</p>
<p>As always, So Much Gratitude to burnttongueontea for the beta.</p>
<p>Content warnings for this chapter:  Vulgar language; dismissive stereotypes of neurodivergent people; abuse of power by an employer.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Nate Parsifal had started working at the library only about a year ago, but Anita pegged him at once as the sort of person that you feel like you’ve known forever.  The Young Adult Librarian—Anita had no idea why libraries used the label ‘</span>
    </em>
    <span>Young Adult</span>
    <em>
      <span>’ instead of ‘</span>
    </em>
    <span>Teen</span>
    <em>
      <span>’ like normal humans; she considered </span>
    </em>
    <span>herself</span>
    <em>
      <span> to be a young adult, thank you very much—was intelligent, earnest, and wryly funny in his own low-key way.  He wasn’t beautiful, not like Rafael; but his face was open and honest and sweetly attractive. (He was also rather taller than Rafael, but Anita assured herself that she wasn’t </span>
    </em>
    <span>that </span>
    <em>
      <span>shallow.)</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>In addition, he was obviously, </span>
    </em>
    <span>painfully</span>
    <em>
      <span>, in love with Anita.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Or at least he thought he was.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>The lovely thing about Nate was that he was so </span>
    </em>
    <span>genuine</span>
    <em>
      <span> about it.  He didn’t share subtly negative digs at her to make her yearn for his approval.  He didn’t act as her friend, and then insinuate that he had thereby </span>
    </em>
    <span>earned</span>
    <em>
      <span> romantic consideration, like some cheesy movie “hero”.   </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>No, he just told her, in that endearingly blunt way of his, “I like you, Anita.  I mean </span>
    </em>
    <span>like</span>
    <em>
      <span>-like; but I also mean </span>
    </em>
    <span>like, </span>
    <em>
      <span>because you are amazing and fantastic and fun, and I am really very happy to be friends with you.  I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t like to be something else to you in addition, but I would never call it </span>
    </em>
    <span>more</span>
    <em>
      <span>, because your friendship is already about as good as it gets.  So if I ever make you feel uncomfortable, please let me know, and I’ll do better, okay?”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>How could she not be charmed by that?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>It didn’t hurt that he—like only the best, most supportive of friends—was even willing to listen to her wallow in her feelings for Rafael.  True, he wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it, or even all that sympathetic:  he liked Dr. Veldt fine, admired him even, but he just didn’t see anything irresistibly sexy about him.  Nor was he particularly encouraging about any possibility that Rafael might love her back.  But he didn’t </span>
    </em>
    <span>discourage</span>
    <em>
      <span> her either; mostly he just listened, and made sympathetic noises, and brought over ice cream and his Netflix password, which Anita considered the </span>
    </em>
    <span>sine qua non</span>
    <em>
      <span> of true friendship.</span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Why couldn’t her stupid heart decide to fall in love with Nate, instead?</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Boss</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  Have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>read</span>
  </em>
  <span> this slanderous bullshit?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Slander is spoken; if it’s written, it’s libel,” Aziraphale said automatically, wincing.  It was far too early in the morning, far too </span>
  <em>
    <span>Monday</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the morning, for him to cope with Anathema in a fury.  He should at least be permitted another cup of tea first.  “Are you talking about the most recent chapter of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stacked! </span>
  </em>
  <span>?  I’m afraid that it doesn’t portray your, er, </span>
  <em>
    <span>other self</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the most flattering light.  One might hope that it will force readers to draw a sharp distinction between the real you and your fictional representation.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”  Anathema dropped her iPad on his desk with a clatter.  “I don’t really care if Tracy Madam or even That Demon wants to paint me as a dithering spineless </span>
  <em>
    <span>calientapollas</span>
  </em>
  <span>; they’ll get theirs, I swear by Freyja and Hecate.  No, I mean have you seen what they did to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Newt</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale blinked.  “You mean ‘Nate Parsifal’?  Aside from the ridiculous name, I thought he was depicted as rather … </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Exactly!” she raged.  “Newt isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  Well, I mean he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course he is, he’s the nicest person on the planet, but that isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>he is!  I don’t love Newt because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  If I wanted nice, I would be in love with </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>!  I love Newt because his glasses are crooked, and because he’s still a little scared of his mother, and because he thinks that </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jedi</span>
  </em>
  <span> is the best Star Wars movie, and because he dips his cupcakes in milk, and because he wears nerdy boxers with dragons on them, and because when he snores he kind of whistles at the same time, and because he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Newt</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dear girl …”  Aziraphale fought down a smile.  “My dear girl, I’m fairly certain that you shouldn’t be sharing such intimate details with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  And I am almost positive that you should be telling all of this to young, er, to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Newton.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“YES, YOU SEE THAT’S EXACTLY IT!” Anathema yelled as she pointed directly at him.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s what a </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> friend says when you start moaning about your crush!  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>ice cream</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale permitted himself a very small, very restrained wriggle after his friend had marched out of his office, presumably to find her boyfriend.  Perhaps he had misjudged Crowley; if his alterations to Tracy Madam’s projected storyline resulted in Anathema and Newton growing closer, That Demon will have turned out to have done a Good Thing after all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He clicked on the document minimized on his screen, ready to give the second chapter another read.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anita DeVilla</span>
  </em>
  <span> certainly treated </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nate Parsifal</span>
  </em>
  <span> with appallingly insensitive obliviousness; still, the character could be forgiven, considering the excessive caution and poor self-esteem stemming from the stifling, borderline-abusive childhood with which the author(s) had burdened their unlucky creation, so different from the headstrong, brave Anathema that Aziraphale knew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t help but chuckle at the various staff and patron shenanigans portrayed—he wondered which of these deft little sketches were written by Crowley, and which by Marjorie Potts—but found himself skimming Anita’s increasingly frustrated search for funding to repair the disastrous roof leak that had formed the first chapter’s cliffhanger.  He had expected that Crowley’s background in legal and military thrillers would creep into even a cozy library romance, but it hadn’t, and he’d spent far too much of his own professional career coping with dreary maintenance tasks and financial juggling to find any pleasure in reading a fictional account.  After all, he had turned down repeated prospective promotions just to avoid gaining any expertise in spreadsheets; he certainly wasn’t going to bother with the topic in his leisure reading.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The following day, Aziraphale learned that he wasn’t alone in ignoring that plotline in favor of romantic complications.  He spent over half an hour with Julia Petley, a sweet (if rather feather-headed) young lady, who came to the desk looking for information about the cultural history of Central Asian nomadic tribes.  Eventually he managed to tease out that Julia was in actuality simply curious about the provenance of a copper tureen she had purchased at a jumble sale, and which she thought looked “sorta Turkish, maybe, or like something that would be used by the tribes on that television show, you know, the one with the dragons and the slaves and all the murders?”   After he gently steered her to the 700’s and the shelves of price guides and books on collectibles, she gushed her thanks, then murmured, “You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> nice and helpful.  Don’t worry about Anita.  I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’ll choose you over that dweeby Nate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a Thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On Wednesday afternoon, Aziraphale hunted down Adam in the stacks, where the page was shelving returns in the Large Print section.  “My dear boy, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!  I had the most marvelously knacky notion about book displays for next month, and I was hoping that I could convince you and the Them, er, the Teen Advis-” The curly-haired page was slowly shaking his head. “Adam, what is wrong?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr. Fell, I’m sorry…”  Adam put down the book he was holding and looked around to see if anyone was in earshot.  “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> sorry about this.  But we can’t, you see?  We just can’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. No, I am afraid that I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> see.  Can’t what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Can’t help you.  Prob’ly shouldn’t even be seen </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span> to you.  It’s not </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> fault, okay?”  Adam said, with more authority than a sixteen-year-old should probably be able to summon.  “We still like you.  And you haven’t done anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  But, y’know, we’re on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Newt</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s side in this.  All of us are.  Don’t want to get caught frat-, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fratrinizing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Bad form, and all that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale wrung his hands together in distress and puzzlement.  “Adam, I’m not … I don’t know, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>competition</span>
  </em>
  <span> with Newton.  Over </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  We—</span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of us—are on the </span>
  <em>
    <span>library</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s side.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh.  Sure.  If you say so.”  Adam resumed shelving, turning his back on Aziraphale.  He cut him a glance over his shoulder.  “But all of us in the Teen Department are one thousand percent Team Nate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale threw up his hands in utter confusion and walked off.  Surely this madness would dissipate on its own, and it couldn’t be soon enough for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was snatching a few moments in his office on Wednesday, tapping the end of his pen against his lower lip while trying to think of a neutral way to describe “catastrophic planning failure” in his grant request to the Friends of the Library, when Eric Dispensa from the backroom knocked on his door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know Eric very well, although he remembered him vaguely from his brief campaign to re-name Technical Services as the “Awesome Department” (Gabriel had signed off on it, until Dagon had bared her teeth and declared that the first official communication that she received with that designation would lead to its immediate transformation into the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Arson</span>
  </em>
  <span> Department).  Despite this failure, Gabriel had been quite taken with the young clerk’s “marketing vision” and placed him in charge of all the library’s social media, but without relieving him of his mailroom duties.  As a consequence, poor Eric was stuck doing the work of an entire legion of staff, for little more than minimum wage; still, he managed to be remarkably upbeat and positive about the whole thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr. Fell?” Eric inquired in his nervous uptalk.  “You’re not too busy?  I think there’s something you need to see?  About the summer reading story?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighed and followed Eric to the backroom, where the younger man pointed to a screen that seemed to have a dozen windows open.  “I’ve been following the chatter on Tracy Madam’s fansites, and they are invested like </span>
  <em>
    <span>woah</span>
  </em>
  <span> in this story, which is good, yeah? I think that La Madame, that’s what they call her?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, I know,” Aziraphale said, incapable of not responding as if this were an actual question.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh-huh?  Anyways, she’s never written, umm, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>beta hero</span>
  </em>
  <span> before?  Whatever that is?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It comes from a misunderstanding of wolf pack dynamics, but in the romance genre, it generally refers to a male romantic lead who is gentle, respectful, supportive, and more likely to treat the female lead as an equal partner,” Aziraphale said, and winced.  He was certain that Eric did not actually care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay?  And in this story, she has, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>two</span>
  </em>
  <span> of them?  So her fans are calling it …” and Eric here swiveled the screen, clicked on a particular window, and read the subject line: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Battle of the Betas</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well,” Aziraphale mused, “it’s good to know that there was a worse potential title than </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stacked!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mm-hmm.  Anyways, they’re sorting themselves into opposing sides:  Team Rafael – that’s you, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Er, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he demurred.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And Team Nate, which would be Mr. Pulsifer in Teens,” Eric concluded, and Aziraphale was so grateful for a simple declarative statement that he squashed down any correction of the category error.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All of this is very interesting, dear boy, but I’m not sure why you felt it was something that must be brought to my attention,” he said, as kindly as he could.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, y’see, Dr. Fell—” Eric began.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span>, please!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr. Aziraphale, then, y’see, the Library got these comments on our Summer Reading site, starting a couple days ago?  And I’ve been scrubbing them, but we keep getting more?” Eric clicked and called up another screen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale felt a premonition cramping his gut as he leaned forward to read:</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>
      <code>Big NatNita fan – Rafael should stick to his own age!</code>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>
      <code>Fire Nate Now!  RAFAEL 4 EVAH!!!</code>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>
      <code>anifael otp – give me that sexy silver fox</code>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>
      <code>Dump the DripVilla!  &lt;3 NatFael &lt;3</code>
    </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good heavens!”  he exclaimed.  The page was filled with similar postings, and he could see that was just the beginning.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’re getting them on Twitter, FaceBook, all our social media,” Eric said.  “I ran a preliminary analysis, and they’re about fifty percent Team Rafael, or at least anti-Nate, about a third Team Nate, and the rest are other pairings or just general comments.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Some of these sound … vaguely </span>
  <em>
    <span>threatening</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale worried.  He did not like the idea of calls to “dump” or “fire” people over a putatively light-hearted fiction.  He supposed that he would have to talk to Shadwell about building security.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eric screwed up his face.  “I don’t … </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> so?  I think they see it as just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>game</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they’re kinda passionate?  But yeah, that’s why I wanted you to know about them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Eric, you showed excellent judgment,” Aziraphale said heavily.  Really, he needed to talk to Dagon about seeing that the young clerk got a raise.  “Please forward to me all future comments that you think might need addressing.  I’ll … Oh, dear.  Is that one seriously proposing …?  Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dear</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  I imagine that I’ll have to talk to any </span>
  <em>
    <span>number </span>
  </em>
  <span>of people.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Might as well start with Dagon while he was in Tech Services, Aziraphale thought wearily.  With any luck, she might kill the messenger, and spare him from submitting his first-ever Incident Report to include such terms as </span>
  <em>
    <span>shipwars </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>slash</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fortunately, most of the staff he chose to notify about the online speculation and acrimony responded with incredulity, amusement, and even indifference.  Gabriel was far less interested in gossip about ‘Gilbert Heard’ and his sexual inclinations than in the story’s subplot about roof leaks and budget woes—“</span>
  <em>
    <span>it makes it look like we can’t manage our own inhouse affairs</span>
  </em>
  <span>”—and Uriel, unsurprisingly, was more disgruntled by the entire concept of fiction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do not understand why half the collection is devoted to explicit </span>
  <em>
    <span>lies</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she sniffed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was an old argument, and Aziraphale wasn’t going to begin re-circling that particular mulberry bush.  “But you are not distressed by the widespread assumption that you, er, that ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ursula Weiss</span>
  </em>
  <span>’, is on the autistic spectrum?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked down her long nose at him (quite a feat, since she was currently seated and he was standing on the other side of her desk). “Of course I am distressed.  Bigoted fools have taken the most stereotypical personality traits, which aren’t even present in many neurodivergent individuals, and used them to diagnose a total stranger based on her briefly mentioned fictional counterpart.  Such reductive idiocy is intolerable.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you’re not … angry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Uriel let out an entirely unexpected bark of laughter.  “Aziraphale.  I don’t laugh at most of your jokes because they’re juvenile, crass, and not that funny.  I take people literally because it forces them to speak directly and to the point.  There’s nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>shameful</span>
  </em>
  <span> about being on the autistic spectrum.  I just don’t happen to belong in that category.  As you very well know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m glad that you’re not upset.  You should have heard Bee’s response to the suggestion that their </span>
  <em>
    <span>alter-ego</span>
  </em>
  <span> was having an affair with Gabriel’s.”  Aziraphale smiled.  “I don’t begrudge anyone their headcanons about stories.  If anything, it is an indication that the characters are well-written and the narrative is doing its job.  I just don’t want any of the individuals portrayed in this project to take such interpretations </span>
  <em>
    <span>personally</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She gave him a penetrating stare.  “You don’t need to worry about the staff, Aziraphale.  You need to think about the fools who are reading it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the next day, he was beginning to think that Uriel may very well have been correct.  Friday being his day off, he took his time over breakfast with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tadfield Advertiser</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  The local paper had revisited the library’s summer programming, as was to be expected; but instead of the usual focus on the Children’s Department, the reporters had chosen to highlight the Adult program, and this ridiculous kerfuffle over Team Rafael and Team Nate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a statement from Gabriel, of course, with his pompous declarations about what “good sports” his staff were, to participate in this “obviously fictional” plotline, which somehow made it sound both sordid and suspiciously reality-based.  There were remarks from Tracy Madam / Marjorie Potts, cooing about her “research trip” to Tadfield, the town’s “supernatural charm”, and the “off-the-charts chemistry” between the real-life inspirations behind her characters—along with a coy deflection of any questions about their actual relationships.  Mostly, however, there were interviews with local residents, avowing “always thought there was something going on with those two,” and “where there’s smoke, there’s fire, if you know what I mean.”  The coverage was overwhelmingly positive, as befit the entertainment section; everyone mentioned their renewed excitement about an often-overlooked public institution, and it was all excellent publicity for the Library.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale was </span>
  <em>
    <span>mortified</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He completely forewent his habitual Friday shopping and errands (even the teatime visit to his favorite bakery!) rather than face the inevitable arch looks and anything-but-casual questions.</span>
</p>
<p><span>When the third chapter popped up in his inbox over the weekend, he almost groaned in despair.  The dull subplot about roof leaks had blossomed into some patent nonsense about missing designated repair funds and really he couldn’t have been bothered to care, except that the fictional Anita had become convinced that she had stumbled upon a grand embezzlement scheme, with all the clues pointing to her beloved Rafael</span> <span>Veldt.  Aziraphale would have considered this a very unsubtle bit of revenge on Crowley’s part, if he weren’t sufficiently conversant with romantic suspense tropes to know that the obvious guilty party was almost never the true villain.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Rafael’s online supporters seemed equally convinced of his innocence, hurling unsubtle invective at the triumphant catcalls from Team Nate members.  More disturbing was the growing impatience with the story’s protagonist and her waffling between her two love interests, with </span>
  <em>
    <span>#MakeUpYourMindNita</span>
  </em>
  <span> becoming the most popular tag on the message boards.  Although Aziraphale had considerable sympathy with the sentiment (he detested romantic triangles in fiction), he was worried that hostile messages targeting poor Anathema might begin to appear on the library’s social media.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did offer her the opportunity to take some time off from work, but she looked at him as if he were mad.  “During the </span>
  <em>
    <span>summer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, boss?  When we are so swamped, and this </span>
  <em>
    <span>maldita</span>
  </em>
  <span> novella is already causing you so many scheduling headaches?  We’ll just shut our mouths and grit it through.  It’s only, what, another month?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Five weeks,” he grimaced.  Still, he was terribly grateful to Anathema, and Newton, and all the staff who soldiered on, acting as if this attention to their personal lives was perfectly normal.  Although the teen volunteers and Adam continued to express their loyalties by refusing to speak to Aziraphale, the titters and whispers in the breakroom had mostly died down.  Patrons, alas, made up for this restraint (or perhaps indifference, Aziraphale did not delude himself that his hypothetical romantic intrigues were really all that interesting) by increasing the number of stares, pointed comments, and even unsolicited advice.  He looked forward in some desperation to the monthly Saturday trivia contest at the end of the week, hoping for an opportunity for everyone affected to release some of the tension and stress.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The evening proved to be anything but a respite. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dinner was excellent, and if Carmine was a bit surly in her service (even spilling Newton’s beer in his lap) that was not unusual enough to note.  But once they reached the time devoted to the competition, and the Library’s team name was announced, the room broke into a deafening cacophony of competing </span>
  <em>
    <span>ANIFAEL</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>NATNITA</span>
  </em>
  <span> chants.  Anathema turned pale, and when Newton tried to shelter her against his side, it provoked a scattering of whistles and boos.  Bee stood on their chair to gesture rudely at the hecklers, Dagon started shouting for more beer, and even Uriel looked perturbed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Carmine just grinned wickedly at the chaos, Aziraphale rose to signal their withdrawal from the event.  With help from Newt and (grudgingly) from Bee, he managed to shepherd their little group out of the bar and into the nearby alley, where he leaned against the brick wall, gulping breaths of the stagnant summer evening air, while Dagon and Bee bickered furiously, and Anathema sobbed quietly within Newton’s arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>From what seemed like very far away, he heard a familiar voice, calling “Angel!  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dragged his eyes open.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yes, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> Crowley, coming around the corner, shouting for him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whom he hadn’t seen for </span>
  <em>
    <span>weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, looking so horribly, painfully </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the white stricken face and wildly gesticulating hands notwithstanding.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>, pleading “Angel, I’m so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span>…”  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>, reaching out for him, until Bee and Dagon stepped in to block his approach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Crowley, the traitor,” Bee sneered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aziraphale!” Crowley cried, struggling to push through</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dagon, not to be outdone, taunted “We know what you’ve done, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crawly</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Faced with their contempt, Crowley seemed to shrink back into himself. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale couldn’t bear it.  “Stop it.  It wasn’t his fault,” he remonstrated in a dull voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wasn’t it?”  Uriel, of all people, stood in front of him protectively, arms akimbo.  “Your boyfriend in the dark glasses isn’t going to help here, Aziraphale.”  She glared at Crowley.  “You’ve done enough.  Get out of here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Angel, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Crowley begged again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All Aziraphale wanted was to vanish from this plane of existence.  “Please.  Just go,” he said without emotion.  He closed his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crowley must have gone, because when he opened his eyes again, there was no sign of the lanky redhead.  Uriel must have pushed Aziraphale somehow into her automobile and driven him home, because he found himself standing in front of his own front door, with no recollection of walking there.  He unlocked the door and, without turning on the lights, headed directly for the liquor cabinet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The following Monday, Gabriel summoned Aziraphale into his office.  “You need to do something about this Tracy Madam story, sunshine,” he said, voice filled with disappointment in his Head of Reference, but also willingness to provide another chance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know, Gabriel,” Aziraphale responded, trying not to sound as bedraggled as he felt.  It turned out that drinking for an entire day left one much less </span>
  <em>
    <span>crisp</span>
  </em>
  <span> the subsequent morning than he had imagined.  “That romantic triangle balderdash has got</span>
  <em>
    <span> quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> out of hand.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel frowned, apparently confused.  “Romantic … triangle?  Oh, all that silly stuff about the girl, and who she fancies, or something.  No, that isn’t worth taking seriously.  But I told you before, any suggestion that the Library cannot manage its finances is unacceptable.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He struggled to think straight.  “I haven’t read this week’s chapter yet.  Is there …?”  He trailed off.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Chapter four has that stupid girl team up with that stupid boy in order to investigate that librarian who is even more useless than </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Zira.”  Gabriel scowled.  “You need to contact that writer woman and tell her to drop this plotline immediately.  Just … call it off, if you have to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Call it off …?”   Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a little shake.  “I don’t think … We signed a </span>
  <em>
    <span>contract</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Gabriel.  With certain narrow exceptions, we relinquished all editorial control.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Contracts are for cowards,” the Assistant Director responded dismissively.  “Your problem is that you’re too </span>
  <em>
    <span>soft</span>
  </em>
  <span>, sunshine.  Just make legal noises at them, threaten them with, I don’t know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>contra proferentem</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>quantum meruit</span>
  </em>
  <span> or something else in Latin, you’re the Classics scholar, there’s a good chap, I expect to see no more about designated funds in the next chapter, please close the door on your way out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the shortest meeting that Aziraphale had ever had with the Assistant Director.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He went back to his office, rubbing his aching head, and called up Tracy Madam’s email. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tried, he truly did.  He knew that he didn’t have a legal (or ethical) leg to stand on, so he went for an appeal to her soft heart.  He wrote about the library’s reputation, and the importance of retaining the trust of the taxpaying public, and the delicate sensitivities of the governing Board, and it was all absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>tosh</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he knew it, but at least he made the effort.  He clicked on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Send</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was less than an hour later that he received his reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <code>Sorry, ducks, but the Muse leads where she will.</code>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <code>It’s ineffable.</code>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>
    <code>Besides, we have a contract.</code>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the week, Aziraphale lurched through his days like someone trapped in a mist.  He felt peculiar, not quite </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as if he were no longer inhabiting his own body.  He ordered books, signed paperwork, adjusted schedules, showed up for every one of his shifts at the Reference Desk; and if he had been asked, he could not have accounted for a single detail of any of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only one moment stood out with excruciating clarity.  Late on Friday evening, he received a text from a number which he had not been able to bring himself to block.</span>
</p>
<p>
    <code><b>Angel</b></code>
  
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <code><b>It wasn t me I swear</b></code>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <code><b>I didn t write that bit</b></code>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <code><b>I tried to take it out</b></code>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <code><b>Please please believ me</b></code>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flipped his phone closed without replying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Sunday finally dragged itself around, it was almost a relief to read the fifth chapter and discover that it included a great deal of discussion of </span>
  <em>
    <span>designated funds</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Specifically, how the sleuthing by ‘Anita’ uncovers that ‘Gilbert’ has been siphoning monies from a long-forgotten insurance settlement that was intended to cover building repairs; and, in the chapter’s cliffhanger ending, how the panicking Assistant Director sets fire to the library to conceal his crimes, with the unconscious ‘Rafael’ and ‘Nate’ locked in a supply closet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel’s summons came to Aziraphale almost before he had sat down to check his messages.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, Aziraphale.  So glad you could join me.”  Gabriel stood with his back to the door, arms crossed, contemplating the view out of his window.  “Did I or did I not give you </span>
  <em>
    <span>One. Simple. Task </span>
  </em>
  <span>just a week ago, sunshine?”  He turned around, and his smile could have cut glass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You did, and I told you at the time that we had no legal authority …” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, Zira.  I am tired of your excuses.  This was </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> program.  This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> responsibility.”  He sat on the corner of the desk, and picked up a pristine file folder.  “Your little stunt has denigrated the impeccable reputation of this institution.  I do believe—and I think that the Director will back me up on this—that it is time for you to accept the consequences of your choices.”  He handed the folder over to Aziraphale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale opened it, saw the heading </span>
  <em>
    <span>Letter of Resignation</span>
  </em>
  <span>, shut the folder again, and placed it on the desk, hands shaking.  “My word, Gabriel, this is a bit … excessive, surely?  I had no control, input, or even knowledge of the plot of this novella.  You don’t expect me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>resign</span>
  </em>
  <span> over a, a, ridiculous fiction!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.  Then he nodded once, and clapped his hands together briskly.  “Very well, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> refuse to take responsibility, obviously I will have to look at the subordinates you failed to manage properly.  It seems to me that the ones who come out looking the best in this </span>
  <em>
    <span>ridiculous fiction</span>
  </em>
  <span> are Ms Device and Mr. Pulsifer, are they not?  Anyone would think that they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>colluding</span>
  </em>
  <span> against the Library.  If you won’t resign, I’d say that you’d have to fire </span>
  <em>
    <span>them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  And if you disobey a direct order, I’ll have no choice but to fire all three of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You can’t …”  Aziraphale stared at him in horror.  “You simply cannot …”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am the Assistant Fucking Director Gabriel Herald, sunshine, and you do not tell me what I can or cannot do.”  He flicked the folder on the desk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat.  Adjusted his bow tie.  Looked down at the folder.  “I don’t suppose that I could persuade you to reconsider?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Half an hour later, Aziraphale stumbled out of Gabriel’s office, no longer a Tadfield Public Library employee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he wasn’t a librarian, what </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>he?</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh, okay.  I guess this is The End, then?</p>
<p>Next week: It looks like everything is ruined forever.  It would take a <i>miracle</i> to get a happy ending now.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic is fully drafted, and about half completely written.  I expect to update weekly on Wednesdays.  The final length depends on how many silly tales out of school I can cram into the plot.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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